“Oh, how ugly that man was! And how he was suffering! How pitiful he seemed! Al my life I shall have the awful contraction of that horrible and magnificent hideousness in my eyes. All my life, I shall have those lamentable tears and desperate groans in my ears!
“He stood up straight, tearing at his hair and crying: ‘If only I could die! But I can’t die! Yes, they’ve even made certain of that! Death itself is forbidden me. Death doesn’t want me! You don’t know, you don’t know that if I die before having brought their accursed work to completion, they’ve promised to burn you with small fires—small fires, do you hear?’
“At that point, he uttered a frightful laugh, and suddenly, I had the terror, in the face of such despair and such a semblance of madness, that he had already talked, that he had given up everything, said everything: a sensation that made my limbs grow weak and made me hold on, breathlessly to that door, behind which the greatest drama on earth was unfolding—a further stage in my reasoning, a further illumination of my inflamed brain—and that sensation, I immediately thought, Nicole must have experienced simultaneously, for she, whose voice I had not yet heard, suddenly raised herself up in the most passionate movement and howled at him: ‘A thousand deaths! A thousand deaths! For me and for you and for my father, rather than your crime!’
“And she tried to grab hold of him, in order to howl again: ‘I’ll let myself die of starvation! I’ll let myself go!’
“She did not have the time to continue, though; General von Berg, who had doubtless had his reasons for letting the Pole’s despair overflow, had rushed upon Nicole as soon as he had heard her, and, with an indescribable brutality, dragged her all the way to my door and threw her into the little room where I had taken refuge, which he naturally assumed to be empty.
“I only just had time to flatten myself against the wall. He didn’t see me, and locked the door with the key.
“At that moment, I heard him shouting for the guard, who was in the vestibule, to whom he gave an order to remain in front of the door, and he went away with the Pole, who filled the house with his demented screams.
“As for me, I was already bending down over Nicole’s recumbent body. She was semi-conscious, but I soon brought her back to her senses by saying to her: ‘I’ve come here to save you. I’ve seen your mother. I’ve been sent here by the French government, to save you and to save Paris from the Titania!’
She stood up as if moved by a spring, then looked me straight in the eyes with her somber and steely gaze. ‘There’s only one way to save us all,’ she whispered, ‘and that’s to kill me!’ When I’m dead, the other won’t say anything more, because he’ll no longer have to fear that they’ll make me suffer! So kill me, Monsieur! If you have a weapon, kill me, and I’ll be saved! I’ve tried myself, several times, but they watch me. They never leave me. At night, in my room, there’s always an old woman who never closes her eyes. They force-feed me when I refuse to eat. For God’s sake, if there’s no weapon here, there’re must be a nail from which to hang me. Hurry, for they won’t leave me alone for long.’
“I had all the difficulty in the world stopping her speaking, from raving deliriously, but my hand over her mouth stifled her, crushing half of her insane words. Finally, I was able to master her. ‘Do you think he’s given up the secret of the compensating rudder?’ I asked.
“She recovered her self-composure then. ‘No, but it’s as good as done. You heard the poor madman! When the moment comes, he won’t hold out against them.’
“‘If he hasn’t talked yet, nothing’s lost yet,’ I said.
“‘But he will talk! He will talk! Didn’t you understand that in his delirium?’
“‘Yes, but how much time is there before he has to talk?’
“‘He’ll have to talk on the twenty-first of the month, and it’s now the sixth. He’ll have to talk in a fortnight.’
“Suffocated by those figures, which I was far from expecting, stammered: ‘But it isn’t possible that they’ve had time to build the Titania...”
“She interrupted me: ‘Certainly! Not the big Titania, which won’t be finished for three months, but it’s a matter of the scale model that they’ve decided to construct in parallel with the big Titania and which will be ready for testing in a fortnight—and perhaps Serge will talk even before then. There’s no longer any hope, I tell you! I know Serge. His love for me extends to the mot somber madness, and is nourished by the hatred he has for the rest of the human race. We’re doomed, I tell you, if you don’t kill me!’
“‘Mademoiselle,’ I declared, then, “I swear to you, personally, that if I have not saved you all within a fortnight, then I will kill you, with this hand, which won’t tremble. And I assure you that I will find a means to reach Serge Kaniewsky thereafter, to say to him: She died in order that you wouldn’t talk.’
“And that admirable young woman looked me straight in the eyes and said: ‘Do one of those two things—save us or kill me—and you will be blessed.’
“With that, she made the sign of the cross—but I had grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil, and I said to her: ‘Write this: My beloved Serge, I died in order that you wouldn’t talk.’
“She wrote it in a firm hand and signed it. I put the piece of paper in my pocket.
“‘What’s your name?’ she asked, still in a low voice.
“I relied: ‘My name is Michel Talmar so far as everyone here is concerned, but for you, I’m Rouletabille,’
“Then I heard the door open. It was General Berg, engineer Richter, engineer Hans and his daughter, coming in search of Nicole. I threw myself into my hiding-place. As for her, she prepared to go with them quietly—but she didn’t have the strength, and they had to carry her away.”
Chapter XV
A Night in Hell
Three days have passed since the last scene. It is midnight. The prodigious forge is working as in broad daylight. By virtue of what habituation, what rapid education, can human beings sleep in the midst of the formidable resonance of that labor of giants?
In the immense barracks of workers and prisoners known as arbeiterheime, the day-shift workers are nevertheless asleep, exhausted.
It is probable that Rouletabille and La Candeur still have some strength in reserve, however, because, instead of going up to their dormitories at the hour required by the regulations, they have stayed up chatting in a deserted corner of the canteen, where good tips slipped into the hand of the feldwebel and a considerable remuneration accorded to Mother Klupfel, assure them an almost absolute security for a few hours.
The Klupfel canteen never closes, by day or night, since the war began, because of the uninterrupted movement of the workers departing for the workshops or coming back from them. Usually, it’s necessary to see the urgency with which Fräulein Emma and Fräulein Ida serve Munich beer, “delicatessens” and KK bread21 to the workers and the soldiers who come to sit at the long and dusty tables in the big hall.
That big hall connects with several other small rooms reserved for NCOs, the Klupfel family or certain private suppers. One of them has been rented by the French prisoners working in the factory. It is in that one that we find Rouletabille and his companion sitting in front of the remains of a supper that is still making La Candeur grimace.
Rouletabille has left the connecting door ajar, and from where he is sitting he can see everything that happens in the big hall. That gradually empties; the clients are complaining about the sudden disappearance of Fräulein Emma and Fräulein Ida. Mother Klupfel, who can no longer stay upright on her weary old legs has told them that her daughters, worn out, have gone upstairs to bed, but the obstinately closed door of a certain private room and the presence of two firemen’s coats and red caps hanging on two hooks near that door is sufficient to certain imaginations overheated by the Munich.
Fräulein Emma and Fräulein Ida, if certain belated clients can be believed, are in the process of taking super with the owners of the aforementioned firemen’s coats and r
ed caps. Someone has even added that if the fiancés of those demoiselles, who are presently working in the foundry, were to have any suspicion of what is going on, they would not conceive any satisfaction from the awareness—to which one regular, who appears to be up to date with such matters, replies that Messieurs the fiancés would not care, being desirous that the two young ladies should amass an honorable dowry.
That final reflection seems to win the agreement of everyone. The last clients go to the door that opens on to the courtyard of the arbeiterheim.
Rouletabille did not let any of these movements escape him. In the meantime, La Candeur was muttering into his sleeve: “And to think that I still don’t know what we came here to do! I don’t know what you’re planning, but there are three hundred thousand men here. What do you expect the two of us to do against three hundred thousand?”
“There aren’t only two of us,” said Rouletabille, abruptly. “There are three.”
“Three! Where’s the third, then?”
After darting a glance into the next room, Rouletabille leaned toward La Candeur’s ear and said: “Vladimir’s here.””
The other started. “No! Where is he, then?”
“In the city, at the Essener-Hoff.”
“Damn! Is it really possible? And what is he doing at the Essener-Hoff?”
“Waiting for my orders.”
“Well, he might have to wait for a long time!”
“They’ve already reached him.”
La Candeur considered Rouletabille admiringly for a moment. “You’ve sent them to him by post?” he asked, not without a certain irony.
“Exactly.”
“Oh! God—and has he replied?”
“And he’s replied.”
“That’s better than playing pitch-and-toss. How do you do it?”
“Well, we take paper, a pen and ink, of course, like everyone else…plus a certain little grid that allows us to insert into a letter of utter banality the words that correspond more particularly to our personal preoccupations.”
“I understand the grid, but what I don’t understand is how you can correspond.”
“It’s quite simple, though. You know that for four days I’ve been able to do almost as I wish in Richter’s private offices, and I haven’t spent all my time drawing designs for sewing-machines. Nothing’s been easier than for me to slip an envelope into the stack of the engineer’s correspondence, before someone comes to fetch it at a fixed time, which is in no way different from the others, and bears the postmark of the kommando. It is, therefore, a sacred object that no one dares allow to go astray, and which is religiously delivered into the hands of Nelpas Pacha, the representative of Turkish interests in regard to the House of Krupp, presently resident in the Essener-Hoff.”
“Who’s Nelpas Pacha?”
“Idiot! It’s Vladimir. It’s a name that Princes Botosani found for him, as if by chance, before he left Paris to go in her delightful company to the enchanted shores of the Bosphorus!”
“And who’s this Princess Botosani?”
“I’ll tell you all that in a few years’ time. It would take too long today. Follow the movement carefully: Vladimir replies to me by writing to Richter, with whom he’s entered into a business relationship, to the orders that I sent him in my first letter. I go through Richter’s post at my leisure. Vladimir’s envelope has a little mark; I open it, if it’s not already open, and I confiscate the letter or let it remain—it doesn’t matter. Anyone can read our prose; there’s nothing in it but matters relating to sewing-machines. It’s necessary to have the grid to discover another meaning.”
“It is, indeed, quite simple,” La Candeur concluded, ecstatically, “but only you can think of such things. Tell me, though, does Vladimir tell you interesting things in his letters?”
“You can believe it! I hear from him everything’s that’s happening in Essen, and he hears from me everything that’s happening in the factory, or nearly.”
“Yes, there must be a lot of gossip in Richter’s house.”
“All the more so as no one suspects that I’m always there to listen in…and Richter trusts me. I’ll tell you something that will certainly cheer you up: I’ve just signed a partnership contract with him, for a magnificent project. I’m going to make a lot of money, La Candeur! I’m going to be rich!”
“What? You’re going into partnership with the Boche now?”
“To begin with, Richter isn’t Boche—he’s Swiss, from Zurich. We’re already good friends. He was so pleased with the first plans I gave him that he’s invited me to his engagement party, so there!”
“Impossible!”
“Pooh! He could do no less for his partner. And do you know where he’s holding his engagement party?”
“At the factory—in General von Berg’s house?”
“Not at all! At the Essener-Hoff, my dear chap.”
“And you’ve accepted?”
“Gladly. It will certainly give me an opportunity to chat at greater length with our friend Vladimir.”
“Good! You have all the luck! And when shall I get to see him—Vladimir?”
Rouletabille suddenly stood up, and went to the door to the big hall, taking care to walk on tiptoe, and whispered to La Candeur: “Right away! You’re going to see him right away!”
“What! In the factory?”
“In the factory.”
“And who’ll take us there?”
“If I told you,” Rouletabille replied, “You wouldn’t believe me. Now, shh!”
Nothing could be heard any longer but the snoring of Mother Klupfel, collapsed on the corner of a table. Rouletabille went into the big hall, headed for the hooks on which the two firemen’s coats and red caps were hanging, took possession of those precious garments, returned with them to the room where La Candeur was waiting, and threw them on a table.
“Get dressed!”
And he did so himself. The uniform seemed to be made for him, and the little red helmet suited him delightfully. Unfortunately, La Candeur’s frame accommodated the new garment rather poorly.
“You need to dispense the sleeves,” the reporter whispered to him, and tilt the helmet to one side, so it looks chic.”
A minute later, they were in the courtyard. Mother Klupfel was still snoring.
“Where are we going?” asked La Candeur.
“Anywhere the service demands,” replied Rouletabille—and, pushing the little service cart used by firemen on patrol in the factory, which seemed to be waiting for them at the exit from the canteen, they had no difficulty walking past the guard post at the entrance to the courtyard of the arbeiterheim reserved for foreign workers and French prisoners.
The little cart had a compartment in which everything was contained necessary to stop or limit the initial progress of a fire: picks, spades axes, and, in a separate box, extinguishing gas-grenades. Finally, above the compartment, there was a light double ladder, which could be extended mechanically by hand.
“Old man,” Rouletabille declared to his companion, as soon as they were in the heart of the factory, “I confess that I’ve had my eye on this ladder, and these coats and caps, since the night before last.”
“To go see Vladimir?” suggested La Candeur, who, in the bewilderment into which all these precipitate and incomprehensible events had plunged him, now only had one thought in his mind: seeing Vladimir.
“Of course! To go see Vladimir, and a few other people that one would have great difficulty getting to if one didn’t have a ladder and a fireman’s coat and cap.”
“There’s no doubt about it—you think of everything.”
They had just emerged from the dark shadow of the high walls of the arbeiterheim, however, and came to a sudden halt before an unexpected spectacle.
“It’s beautiful, Hell!” sighed La Candeur.
They had never been in the factory by night; they had only ever heard its terrible din, which never died away, any more than the fire of its crucibles, b
ut it was necessary for their eyes to be removed from the darkness to embrace at a stroke the horrible splendor of that chaos in flames. The slightest crack in a doorway open to the interior labor suddenly lit up the night with a fulgurant glow; the red plumes of tall chimneys writhed above their heads in the midst of whirlwinds of noxious smoke, blacker than the sky. Other fulgurances battered by the wind descended and dispersed in an eternal rain of fire and hot ash.
“Let’s go!” whispered Rouletabille. “Courage, Le Candeur!”
And La Candeur, consternated but docile, condemned to turn in the accursed furnace without knowing what crime had sent him down to that Gehenna, repeated: “Let’s go—since we have to.”
One reference-point seemed to guide Rouletabille through that night of flame: the high walls of the octagonal tower whose steps he had climbed with Richter—the water tower. They arrived there without any inconvenience. They went through the midst of all the shadows that inhabited the roads bordered by roaring forges without anyone asking them a question.
At the water tower, Rouletabille paused briefly, waited until the vicinity was deserted, and then, still pushing his handcart, slipped between two enormous buildings whose walls, devoid of doors, had a kind of river of darkness between them. The young men were immediately swallowed up by that protective darkness, and soon fund themselves facing an edifice that had been deliberately isolated, as much as possible, from the great cacophony of labor. It was the house in which the director of the Energy Laboratory, Hans, lived with his daughter Helena and his prisoner Nicole.
Rouletabille knew that Nicole’s window was the last in the left-hand corner, on the first floor. He also knew that Nicole was never alone at night—that a woman watched her incessantly—and that there were bars on Nicole’s window. What, then, was he hoping to do? Why had he suddenly approached that wall? Why did he boldly and rapidly deploy the entire length of his ladder and support it on the roof, as if his duty as a fire-fighter demanded that he go to check that the building’s superstructure was not in any danger in consequence of some falling flaming debris that he had observed? Why—because he wanted to see Nicole, whom he had not seen since the terrible scene when she had put into his hands the right to kill her.
Rouletabille at Krupp's Page 11