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  The TREMENDOUS EVENT MAURICE LE BLANC]

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  THE WOMAN OF MYSTERY THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE THE SECRET OF SAREK EYES OF INNOCENCE THE THREE EYES THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK

  "You don't regret anything, Isabel?" he whispered.]

  THE TREMENDOUS EVENT

  BY MAURICE LE BLANC

  TRANSLATED BY ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS

  NEW YORKTHE MACAULAY COMPANY

  COPYRIGHT, 1922, BYTHE MACAULAY COMPANY

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  The tremendous event of the 4th. of June, whose consequences affectedthe relations of the two great Western nations even more profoundlythan did the war, has called forth, during the last fifty years, aconstant efflorescence of books, memoirs and scientific studies oftruthful reports and fabulous narratives. Eye-witnesses have relatedtheir impressions; journalists have collected their articles intovolumes; scientists have published the results of their researches;novelists have imagined unknown tragedies; and poets have lifted uptheir voices. There is no detail of that tragic day but has beenbrought to light; and this is true likewise of the days which wentbefore and of those which came after and of all the reactions, moralor social, economic or political, by which it made itself felt,throughout the twentieth century, in the destinies of the world.

  There was nothing lacking but Simon Dubosc's own story. And it wasstrange that we should have known only by reports, usually fantastic,the part played by the man who, first by chance and then by hisindomitable courage and later still by his clear-sighted enthusiasm,was thrust into the very heart of the adventure.

  To-day, when the nations are gathered about the statue over-lookingthe arena in which the hero fought, does it not seem permissible toadd to the legend the embellishment of a reality which will notmisrepresent it? And, if it is found that this reality trenches tooclosely upon the man's private life, need we object?

  It was in Simon Dubosc that the western spirit first became consciousof itself and it is the whole man that belongs to history.

  CONTENTS

  PART THE FIRST

  CHAPTER PAGEI. THE SUIT 13II. THE CROSSING 32III. GOOD-BYE SIMON 54IV. THE GREAT UPHEAVAL 71V. VIRGIN SOIL 85VI. TRIUMPH 98VII. LYNX-EYE 120VIII. ON THE WAR-PATH 143

  PART THE SECOND

  I. INSIDE THE WRECK 169II. ALONG THE CABLE 189III. SIDE BY SIDE 209IV. THE BATTLE 223V. THE CHIEF'S REWARD 242VI. HELL ON EARTH 265VII. THE FIGHT FOR THE GOLD 282VIII. THE HIGH COMMISSIONER FOR THE NEW TERRITORIES 301

  PART THE FIRST

  The Tremendous Event

  CHAPTER I

  THE SUIT

  "Oh, but this is terrible!" cried Simon Dubosc. "Edward, just listen!"

  And the young Frenchman, drawing his friend away from the tablesarranged in little groups on the terraces of the club-house, showedhim, in the late edition of the _Argus_, which a motorcyclist had justbrought to the New Golf Club, this telegram, printed in heavy type:

  "BOULOGNE, _20 May_.--The master and crew of a fishing-vessel which has returned to harbour declare that this morning, at a spot mid-way between the French and English coasts, they saw a large steamer lifted up by a gigantic waterspout. After standing on end with her whole length out of the water, she pitched forward and disappeared in the space of a few seconds.

  "Such violent eddies followed and the sea, until then quite calm, was affected by such abnormal convulsions that the fishermen had to row their hardest to avoid being dragged into the whirlpool. The naval authorities are sending a couple of tugs to the site of the disaster."

  "Well, Rolleston, what do you think of it?"

  "Terrible indeed!" replied the Englishman. "Two days ago, the _Villede Dunkerque_. To-day another ship, and in the same place. There's acoincidence about it. . . ."

  "That's precisely what a second telegram says," exclaimed Simon,continuing to read:

  "3. O. P. M.--The steamer sunk between Folkestone and Boulogne is the transatlantic liner _Brabant_, of the Rotterdam-Amerika Co., carrying twelve hundred passengers and a crew of eight hundred. No survivors have been picked up. The bodies of the drowned are beginning to rise to the surface.

  "There is no doubt that this terrifying calamity, like the loss of the _Ville de Dunkerque_ two days ago, was caused by one of those mysterious phenomena which have been disturbing the Straits of Dover during the past week and in which a number of vessels were nearly lost, before the sinking of the _Brabant_ and the _Ville de Dunkerque_."

  The two young men were silent. Leaning on the balustrade which runsalong the terrace of the club-house, they gazed beyond the cliffs atthe vast circle of the sea. It was peaceful and kindly innocent ofanger or treachery; its near surface was crossed by fine streaks ofgreen or yellow, while, farther out, it was flawless and blue as thesky and, farther still, beneath the motionless cloud, grey as a greatsheet of slate.

  But, above Brighton, the sun, already dipping towards the downs, shonethrough the clouds; and a luminous trail of gold-dust appeared uponthe sea.

  "_La perfide!_" murmured Simon Dubosc. He understood Englishperfectly, but always spoke French with his friend. "The perfidiousbrute: how beautiful she is, how attractive! Would you ever havethought her capable of these malevolent whims, which are sodestructive and murderous? Are you crossing to-night, Rolleston?"

  "Yes, Newhaven to Dieppe."

  "You'll be quite safe," said Simon. "The sea has had her two wrecks;she's sated. But why are you in such a hurry to go?"

  "I have to interview a crew at Dieppe to-morrow morning; I am puttingmy yacht in commission. Then, in the afternoon, to Paris, I expect;and, in a week's time, a cruise to Norway. And you, Simon?"

  Simon Dubosc did not reply. He had turned toward the club-house, whosewindows, in their borders of Virginia creeper and honeysuckle, wereblazing with the sun. The players had left the links and were takingtea beneath great many-coloured sunshades planted on the lawn. The_Argus_ was passing from hand to hand and arousing excited comments.Some of the tables were occupied by young men and women, others bytheir elders and others by old gentlemen who were recuperating theirstrength by devouring platefuls of cake and toast.

  To the left, beyond the geranium-beds, the gentle undulations of thelinks began, covered with turf that was like green velvet; and rightat the end, a long way off, rose the tall figure of a last player,escorted by his two caddies.

  "Lord Bakefield's daughter and her three friends can't take their eyesoff you," said Rolleston.

  Simon smiled:

  "Miss Bakefield is looking at me because she knows I love her; and herthree friends because they know I love Miss Bakefield. A man in loveis always something to look at; a pleasant sight for the one who isloved and an irritating sight for those who are not."

  This was spoken without a trace of vanity. For that matter, no mancould have possessed more natural charm or displayed a more alluringsimplici
ty. The expression of his face, his blue eyes, his smile andsomething personal, an emanation compounded of strength and supplenessand healthy gaiety, of confidence in himself and in life, allcontributed to give this peculiarly favoured young man a power ofattraction to whose spell the onlooker readily surrendered.

  Devoted to out-door games and exercises, he had grown to manhood withthose young postwar Frenchmen who made a strong point of physicalculture and a rational mode of life. His movements and his attitudesalike revealed that harmony which is developed by a logical trainingand is still further refined, in those who comply with the rules of avery active intellectual existence, by the study of art and a feelingfor beauty in all of its forms.

  For him, indeed, as for many others, liberation from the lecture-roomhad not meant the beginning of a new life. If, by reason of asuperfluity of energy, he was impelled to give much of his time togames and to attempts at establishing records which took him to allthe running-grounds and athletic battle-fields of Europe and America,he never allowed his body to take precedence of his mind. Every day,come what might, he set apart the two or three hours of solitude, ofreading and meditation, which the intellect requires for itsnourishment, continuing to learn with the enthusiasm of a student whois prolonging the life of the school and university until eventscompel him to make a choice among the paths which he has opened up forhimself.

  His father, to whom he was bound by ties of the liveliest affection,was puzzled:

  "After all, Simon, what are you aiming at? What's your object?"

  "I am training."

  "For what?"

  "I don't know. But an hour strikes for each of us when we must befully prepared, well equipped, with our ideas in good order and ourmuscles absolutely fit. I shall be ready."

  And so he reached his thirtieth year. It was at the beginning of thatyear, at Nice, through Edward Rolleston, that he made Miss Bakefield'sacquaintance.

  "I am sure to see your father at Dieppe," said Rolleston. "He will besurprised that you haven't returned with me, as we arranged lastmonth. What shall I say to him?"

  "Say that I'm stopping here a little longer . . . or no, don't sayanything. . . . I'll write to him . . . to-morrow perhaps . . . or theday after. . . ."

  He took Rolleston's arm:

  "Tell me, old chap," he said, "tell me. If I were to ask LordBakefield for his daughter's hand, what do you think would happen?"

  Rolleston appeared to be nonplussed. He hesitated and then replied:

  "Miss Bakefield's father is a peer, and perhaps you don't know thather mother, the wonderful Lady Constance, who died some six years ago,was the grand-daughter of a son of George III. Therefore she had aneighth part of blood royal running in her veins."

  Edward Rolleston pronounced these words with such unction that Simon,the irreverent Frenchman, could not help laughing:

  "The deuce! An eighth! So that Miss Bakefield can still boast asixteenth part and her children will enjoy a thirty-second! My chancesare diminishing! In the matter of blood royal, the most that I can layclaim to is a great-grandfather, a pork-butcher by trade, who votedfor the death of Louis XVI.! That doesn't amount to much!"

  He gave his friend a gentle push:

  "Do me a service. Miss Bakefield is alone for the moment. Keep herfriends engaged so that I can speak to her for a minute or two: Ishan't be longer."

  Edward Rolleston, a friend of Simon's who shared his athletic tastes,was a tall young man, too pale, too thin and so long in the back thathe had acquired a stoop. Simon knew that he had many faults, includinga love of whisky and the habit of haunting private bars and living byhis wits. But he was a devoted friend, in whom Simon was conscious ofa genuine and loyal affection.

  The two men went forward together. Miss Bakefield came to meet Simon,while Rolleston accosted her three friends.

  Miss Bakefield wore an absolutely simple wash frock, without any ofthe trimmings that were then the fashion. Her bare throat, her arms,which showed through the muslin of her sleeves, her face and even herforehead under her hat were of that warm tint which the skin of somefair-haired women acquires in the sun and the open air. Her eyes werealmost black, flecked with glittering specks of gold. Her hair, whichshone with metallic glints, was dressed low on the neck in a heavycoil. But these were trivial details which you noted only at leisure,when you had in some degree recovered from the glorious spectacle ofher beauty in all its completeness.

  Simon had not so recovered. He always paled a little when he met MissBakefield's eyes, however tenderly they rested on him.

  "Isabel," he said, "are you determined?"

  "Quite as much as yesterday," she said, smiling; "and I shall be stillmore so to-morrow, when the moment comes for action."

  "Still. . . . We have known each other hardly four months."

  "Meaning thereby? . . ."

  "Meaning that, now that we are about to perform an irreparable action,I invite you to use your judgment. . . ."

  "Rather than listen to my love? Since I first loved you, Simon, I havenot been able to discover the least disagreement between my judgmentand my love. That's why I am going with you to-morrow morning."

  "Isabel!"

  "Would you rather that I left to-morrow night with my father? On avoyage lasting three or four years? That is what he proposes, what heinsists upon. It's for you to choose."

  While they exchanged these serious words, their faces displayed notrace of the emotion which thrilled the very depths of their beings.It was as though, in being together, they experienced that sense ofhappiness which gives strength and tranquillity. And, as the girl,like Simon, was tall and bore herself magnificently, they received avague impression that they were one of those privileged couples whomdestiny selects for a life more strenuous, nobler and more passionatethan the ordinary.

  "Very well," said Simon. "But let me at least appeal to your father.He doesn't know. . . ."

  "There is nothing he doesn't know, Simon. And it is precisely becauseour love displeases him and displeases my step-mother even more thathe wants to get me away from you."

  "I insist on this, Isabel."

  "Speak to him, then, Simon, and, if he refuses, don't try to see meto-day. To-morrow, a little before twelve o'clock, I shall be atNewhaven. Wait for me by the gangway of the steamer."

  He had something more to say:

  "Have you seen the _Argus_?"

  "Yes."

  "You're not frightened of the crossing?"

  She smiled. He bowed over her hand and kissed it and said no more.

  Lord Bakefield, a peer of the United Kingdom, had been married firstto the aforesaid great-grand-daughter of George III. and secondly tothe Duchess of Faulconbridge. He was the owner, in his own right orhis wife's, of country-houses, estates and town properties whichenabled him to travel from Brighton to Folkestone almost withoutleaving his own domains. He was the distant player who had lingered onthe links; and his figure, now less remote, was appearing anddisappearing according to the lay of the ground. Simon decided toprofit by the occasion and to go to meet him.

  He set out resolutely. In spite of the young girl's warning and thoughhe had learnt, from her and from Edward Rolleston, something of LordBakefield's true character and of his prejudices, he was influenced bythe memory of the cordial welcome which Isabel's father had invariablyaccorded him hitherto.

  This time again the grip of his hand was full of geniality. LordBakefield's face--a round face, too fat for his thin and lanky body,too florid and a little commonplace, though not lacking inintelligence--lit up with satisfaction.

  "Well, young man, I suppose you have come to say good-bye? You haveheard that we are leaving?"

  "I have, Lord Bakefield; and that is why I should like a few wordswith you."

  "Quite, quite! You have my attention."

  He bent over the tee, building up, with his two hands, a little moundof sand on whose summit he placed his ball; then, drawing himself up,he accepted the brassy which one of his caddies held out to him andtook hi
s stand, perfectly poised, with his left foot a little advancedand his knees very slightly bent. Two or three trial swings, to assurehimself of the precise direction; a second's reflection andcalculation; and suddenly the club swung upwards, descended and struckthe ball.

  The ball flew through the air and suddenly veered to the left; then,curving to the right after passing a clump of trees which formed anobstacle to be avoided, it fell on the putting-green at a few yards'distance from the hole.

  "Well done!" cried Simon. "A very pretty screw!"

  "Not so bad, not so bad," said Lord Bakefield, resuming his round.

  Simon did not allow himself to be disconcerted by this curious methodof beginning an interview and broached his subject, without furtherpreamble:

  "Lord Bakefield, you know who my father is, a Dieppe ship-owner, withthe largest merchant-fleet in France. So I need say no more on thatside."

  "Capital fellow, M. Dubosc," said Lord Bakefield, approvingly. "I hadthe pleasure of shaking hands with him at Dieppe last month. Capitalfellow."

  Simon continued, delightedly:

  "Let us consider my own case. I'm an only son. I have an independentfortune from my poor mother. When I was twenty, I crossed the Saharain an aeroplane without touching ground. At twenty-one, I made therecord for the running mile. At twenty-two, I won two events at theOlympic Games: fencing and swimming. At twenty-five, I was the world'schampion all-round athlete. And mixed up with all this was the Moroccocampaign: four times mentioned in dispatches, promoted lieutenant inthe reserve, awarded the military medal and the medal for savinglife. That's all. Oh no, I was forgetting: licentiate in letters,laureate of the Academy for my essays on the Grecian ideal of beauty.There you are. I am twenty-nine years of age."

  Lord Bakefield looked at him with the tail of his eye and murmured:

  "Not bad, young man, not bad."

  "As for the future," Simon continued, without waiting, "that won'ttake long. I don't like making plans. However, I have the offer of aseat in the Chamber of Deputies at the coming elections, in August. Ofcourse, politics don't much interest me. But after all . . . if Imust. . . . And then I'm young: I shall always manage to get a placein the sun. Only, there's one thing . . . at least, from your point ofview, Lord Bakefield. My name is Simon Dubosc. Dubosc in one word,without the particule . . . without the least semblance of a title.. . . And that, of course. . . ."

  He expressed himself without embarrassment, in a good-humoured,playful tone. Lord Bakefield, the picture of amiability, was quiteimperturbed. Simon broke into a laugh:

  "I quite grasp the situation; and I would much rather give you a moreelaborate pedigree, with a coat-of-arms, motto and title-deedscomplete. Unfortunately, that's impossible. However, if it comes tothat, we can trace back our ancestry to the fourteenth century. Yes,Lord Bakefield, in 1392, Mathieu Dubosc, a yeoman in the manor ofBlancmesnil, near Dieppe, was sentenced to fifty strokes of the rodfor theft. And the Duboscs went on valiantly tilling the soil, fromfather to son. The farm still exists, the farm _du Bosc_, that is _duBosquet_, of the clump of trees. . . ."

  "Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Lord Bakefield.

  "Oh, you know," repeated the younger man, somewhat taken back.

  He intuitively felt, by the old nobleman's attitude and the very toneof the interruption, the full importance of the words which he wasabout to hear.

  And Lord Bakefield continued:

  "Yes, I happen to know. . . . When I was at Dieppe last month, I madea few inquiries about my family, which sprang from Normandy. Bakefieldas you may perhaps not be aware, is the English corruption ofBacqueville. There was a Bacqueville among the companions of Williamthe Conqueror. You know the picturesque little market-town of thatname in the middle of the Pays de Caux? Well, there is afourteenth-century deed in the records at Bacqueville, a deed signedin London, by which the Count of Bacqueville, Baron of Auppegard andGourel, grants to his vassal, the Lord of Blancmesnil, the right ofadministering justice on the farm du Bosc . . . the same farm du Boscon which poor Mathieu received his thrashing. An amusing coincidence,very amusing indeed: what do you think, young man?"

  This time, Simon was pierced to the quick. It was impossible toimagine a more impertinent answer couched in more frank and courteousterms. Quite baldly, under the pretence of telling a genealogicalanecdote, Lord Bakefield made it clear that in his eyes young Duboscwas of scarcely greater importance than was the fourteenth-centuryyeoman in the eyes of the mighty English Baron Bakefield and feudallord of Blancmesnil. The titles and exploits of Simon Dubosc, world'schampion, victor in the Olympic Games, laureate of the French Academyand all-round athlete, did not weigh an ounce in the scale by which aBritish peer, conscious of his superiority, judges the merits of thosewho aspire to his daughter's hand. Now the merits of Simon Duboscwere of the kind which are amply rewarded with the favour of anassumed politeness and a cordial handshake.

  All this was so evident and the old nobleman's mind, with its pride,its prejudice and its stiff-necked obstinacy, stood so plainlyrevealed that Simon, who was unwilling to suffer the humiliation of arefusal, replied in a rather impertinent and bantering tone:

  "Needless to say, Lord Bakefield, I make no pretension to becomingyour son-in-law just like that, all in a moment and without havingdone something to deserve so immense a privilege. My request refersfirst of all to the conditions which Simon Dubosc, the yeoman'sdescendant, would have to fulfil to obtain the hand of a Bakefield. Ipresume that, as the Bakefields have an ancestor who came over withWilliam the Conqueror, Simon Dubosc, to rehabilitate himself in theireyes, would have to conquer something--such as a kingdom--or,following the Bastard's example, to make a triumphant descent uponEngland? Is that the way of it?"

  "More or less, young man," replied the old peer, slightly disconcertedby this attack.

  "Perhaps too," continued Simon, "he ought to perform a few superhumanactions, a few feats of prowess of world-wide importance, affectingthe happiness of mankind? William the Conqueror first, Hercules or DonQuixote next? . . . Then, perhaps, one might come to terms?"

  "One might, young man."

  "And that would be all?"

  "Not quite!"

  And Lord Bakefield, who had recovered his self-possession, continued,in a genial fashion:

  "I cannot undertake that Isabel would remain free for very long. Youwould have to succeed within a given space of time. Do you consider,M. Dubosc, that I shall be too exacting if I fix this period at twomonths?"

  "You are much too generous, Lord Bakefield," cried Simon. "Three weekswill be ample. Think of it: three weeks to prove myself the equal ofWilliam the Conqueror and the rival of Don Quixote! It is longer thanI need! I thank you from the bottom of my heart! For the present, LordBakefield, good-bye!"

  And, turning on his heels, fairly well-satisfied with an interviewwhich, after all, released him from any obligation to the oldnobleman, Simon Dubosc returned to the club-house. Isabel's name hadhardly been mentioned.

  "Well," asked Rolleston, "have you put forward your suit?"

  "More or less."

  "And what was the reply?"

  "Couldn't be better, Edward, couldn't be better! It is not at allimpossible that the decent man whom you see over there, knocking alittle ball into a little hole, may become the father-in-law of SimonDubosc. A mere nothing would do the trick: some tremendous stupendousevent which would change the face of the earth. That's all."

  "Events of that sort are rare, Simon," said Rolleston.

  "Then, my dear Rolleston, things must happen as Isabel and I havedecided."

  "And that is?"

  Simon did not reply. He had caught sight of Isabel, who was leavingthe club-house.

  On seeing him, she stopped short. She stood some twenty paces away,grave and smiling. And in the glance which they exchanged there wasall the tenderness, devotion, happiness and certainty that two youngpeople, can promise each other on the threshold of life.