No, Nicole had not come back again to Richter’s design-studio with Helena, and the reporter had waited in vain for an opportunity to communicate with her.
As Rouletabille was about to set foot on the ladder, La Candeur said to him: “If someone comes, what should I do?”
“Nothing. You’re doing your duty and I’m doing mine.”
“If it’s an officer, who speaks to me, I won’t be able to reply.”
“So don’t reply.”
“And if he persists?”
“Knock him out.”
And Rouletabille climbed his ladder, going past a window permanently illuminated by a muted night-light—and as he went past he looked in. On her bed, directly opposite, against the back wall, he saw Nicole lying down, supporting her head in one hand, her eyes wide open.
Insomnia was afflicting the unfortunate young woman. She seemed lost in a profound dream, perhaps more cruel than those which pursued her in her sleep.
She looked up, however, and must have perceived Rouletabille’s shadow at the window, because she got up quietly and snuffed out the night-light set on her bedside table.
The reporter no longer knew what to think or do. He had not forgotten that they still had to fear the female guard, doubtless asleep for the moment, but who might suddenly wake up and raise the alarm. On the other hand, it seemed to him that he could hear the murmur of voices on the other side of the wall, and he feared being taken by surprise, immobile on his ladder.
He climbed a few more rungs, his eyes still fixed on the window. Then, at the window, pressed against the glass, the pained and anguished face of Nicole appeared, fantastically illuminated by the intermittent gleams rending the ink-black sky.
Rouletabille made a sign to the young woman, and went back down the rungs he had just mounted. Almost immediately, the window was cautiously opened by a crack, and Nicole leaned out into the mystery of the night.
Rouletabille whispered to her: “I don’t see you any more—why? It’s absolutely necessary that you accept the invitation that Fräulein Hans will give you to her engagement party.”
The reporter waited for a reply, but something new must have happened in the room, for the window snapped shut and the pale apparition disappeared.
Now the darkness was profound, and the murmur of voices on the other side of the wall was renewed. A few words reached Rouletabille and excited his curiosity. He went up on to the roof, slid along the gutter and, having arrived at its extremity, leaned over. On the threshold of Hans’s dwelling, a light coming room inside showed him two men, who were chatting while smoking their pipes.
He recognized that taller and more powerfully-built of the two by his butler’s uniform: it was the guard who always accompanied Nicole on her excursions with Helena. The other had to be the concierge.
Rouletabille clearly heard fragmentary sentences. “Since Wednesday, I’ve been able to go back to sleep at my own place…it’s still the same…except tomorrow, the service will start to be hard again…yes, they’re going out…going for a ride…seems that it’s necessary to be seen…after Wednesday, I was pretty sure that I’d be rid of it all...”
The other replied: “Yes. We all thought here that it was finished.”
“Oh well—and over there, Princess Botosani said: ‘she’ll be dead tomorrow.’”
“And now, she’s much better! It’s incredible how resilient these young women are—not to mention that, when they want her to look well, they can feed her an uncommon elixir...”
“Give me a pinch of tobacco, my old Franz, so that I can smoke one last pipe before going back to the house...”
Rouletabille did not hear any more. Now he knew the perfectly simple reason why he had not seen Nicole again. Fulbert’s daughter had been very ill after the scene of the interview with Serge Kaniewsky—so ill that they had had to take her to a hospital immediately, or at least to a house of rest—where Princess Botosani, presently at the Essener-Hoff with Vladimir, had doubtless had the opportunity to give her some care…for, by virtue of her well-known cosmopolitanism, that charming woman must have had the pleasure of donning a nurse’s uniform in Germany, as in Paris. Now, Nicole was much better, and there was nothing astonishing about that, her weakness being primarily the result of a mental state that could be transformed from one day to the next.
Quite content with what he had just learned, the reporter went back to his ladder, climbed down again, observing that there was no further apparition of Nicole at the window and that the nigh-light in the room had not been lit again. Then he let himself slide down the ladder and fell into La Candeur’s arms.
The latter said: “I can’t do this any longer. Twice, now a big devil of a fireman-sergeant has gone past, looking at me oddly. The second time, he spoke to me! You can imagine that I was in a panic. I didn’t know what he said to me, but at hazard, I answered ‘Ja!’ leaning over my cart as if I were very busy. It seems that that did the trick, since he continued on his way, throwing a ‘Gute nacht!’ at me, to which I didn’t even reply because of the accent. I don’t trust myself, you know—there’s only Ja that I know in German and can pronounce properly. The rest of the language, it’s better not to speak. Now, let’s get away!”
“Yes,” said Rouletabille. “En route. We don’t have anything more to do here.”
They restored the ladder to its customary height and departed promptly, pushing their little cart.
Once again it was necessary for them to go along avenues that were cluttered and very busy. They threw themselves into it bravely, almost running, as if they had received orders to go to a place where their services were required as soon as possible.
Suddenly, they saw a big man in a red cap loom up in front of them: the foreman-sergeant that La Candeur had mentioned.
“It’s him!” sighed La Candeur! “Him again! He’ll see us!”
Rouletabille slowed his pace and passed bravely under the nose of the terrible NCO. The latter, addressing La Candeur, said in a harsh voice, in the jargon of a Boche soldier: “I’ve already told you to put your cap on straight! Make sure I don’t have to tell you again. If you were in my section, you’d get to know me, you stubborn swine!”
“Pay no attention,” grunted Rouletabille. “My comrade’s a bit deaf—I’ll talk to him.” And he hastened his steps, taking an obscure side-street to the left—but the other followed them.
“What does the animal want now?” groaned La Candeur., wiping large droplets of sweat from his forehead. “He scares me, that one! He won’t let up, you know!”
“Straighten your cap!” said Rouletabille, rapidly. “He wants you to be properly dressed.”
“Damn it! I can’t get my arms into the sleeves!”
“Don’t stop! Don’t stop—but pretend to be putting them on…perhaps he’ll let us go.”
La Candeur straightened his cap and tried to put his arm in a sleeve while continuing to march.
“Oh, I can’t, I can’t! They’re sleeves for a doll!”
“Sure! You’d rather have his coat!”
“It’d fit me like a glove,” La Candeur agreed, beginning to tremble.
“Not to mention that it would promote you to sergeant on the spot—which isn’t disagreeable.”
“Don’t joke, Rouletabille. Here he comes! Here he comes! He’ll have us, I tell you. I’m scared!”
“Keep going, without paying any attention, and keep your coat on your shoulders. If you’re as scared at all that, so much the better.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because when he gets close to us, you’re going to turn round calmly and give him your ‘fearful punch.’”
“Like the Turk in the Black Castle?”
“Like the Turk. He mustn’t make a sound. If you mess it up, I wouldn’t give a pfennig for both our skins!”
“One will never be tranquil again in this vale of tears!” groaned La Candeur, literally quivering with fear—but Rouletabille saw with pleasure that his arm was free and
that he was already swinging it, while clenching a most imposing fist.
At that moment, the feldwebel caught up with them, cursing and gesticulating.
It happened as planned. La Candeur turned round “calmly,” as Rouletabille had recommended, raised his right arm as if to salute, and suddenly brought his “fearful punch” down on the NCOs head.
The other did not even utter a sigh. He fell as if thunderstruck, into a gutter along the wall, through which black water was running.
“Damn it! He’s going to get my lovely coat dirty!” La Candeur exclaimed, falling upon the body and ripping it off him. Then he turned to Rouletabille.
“Can you believe that I’ve killed him?” he asked.
“Like a pole-axed ox,” the reporter replied. “I warned him. But this is no time for making speeches! Give me your coat and cap, so I can put them in the cart, and put on his uniform. Put on his cap! There you are—lovely as a star! And I have to obey your orders! Everyone will leave us in peace, now that you’ve been promoted.”
“What are we going to do with the body?” asked La Candeur. “We can’t leave him here.”
“No—put him over your shoulder, quickly.”
“We’ve got a pick and a shovel—perhaps we could bury him?” La Candeur suggested, hoisting the corpse on to his back with Rouletabille’s help.
“Do you think so? Perhaps we should also build him a monument with a cross on top? Let’s go—march!”
A few paces away, Rouletabille had already see that the stream ran into a large pond that must be very deep, to judge by the quantity of dirty and steaming water that was emerging from the cast-iron pipes and pouring into it; the enormous opening of a drain collected the unclean water in order to carry it God only knew where…but the bottom of the basin must never run dry, and the reporter had immediately concluded that it would be an admirable tomb for a Boche NCO who had to disappear without leaving any trace.
It was with difficulty that Rouletabille detached one of the two knotted ropes that were in their cart, but the rope was necessary to attach two large stones that were protecting the entrance to a garage to the feldwebel’s neck and feet.
After tying the NOC up, they dropped him into the little infernal lake, and did not stick around to contemplate the ripples that the fall of the weighted body made in the bubbling water.
A few minutes later, they found themselves back in the midst of the nocturnal blaze of the prodigious forge.
“Where are we going now?! La Candeur demanded, anxiously, thinking that they had had enough adventures for one night. “Are we going back soon? If we don’t get back in time, the two firemen will come out of Mother Klupfel’s howling that someone’s stolen their kit.”
“Do you think so? They’ll think it’s a joke—especially when they can’t find their little cart.”
“You aren’t going to give it back?”
“What do you expect me to do with it? I can’t keep it in my pocket.”
“So?”
“So, when we’ve finished making use of it, we’ll find it in some corner where they’ll be able to find it. Except that I’d better warn you immediately that they’ll search in vain for the two ropes, the rope-ladder, the pick, the spade and the two axes.”
“And you don’t think they’ll squeal?”
“No—because of the missing coats and caps, they won’t say a word. They’re at fault, old chap—and I tell you that they’ll think that their comrades, jealous of their success with Fräulein Ida and Fräulein Emma, have played a joke on them. Have no fear—they’ll get out of it as best they can…but they won’t complain. Anyway, they can do as they wish, for it isn’t me who’ll give them back their coats and caps!”
“Perhaps you’re wrong! What are you going to do with them?”
“They’re so convenient for taking a walk.”
“Well, I’ll just say one thing, which is that I’m beginning to think, perfectly, that I’ve had enough of going for walks. Suppose we went back to bed! Don’t you agree?”
“Certainly not. We’re doing very nicely here. One comes, one goes, one can wander anywhere one wants. One can see everything! One can learn! Just look! Don’t you think this is wonderful: the spectacle of the foundry by night? You said it yourself: it’s beautiful, Hell.
“I’m afraid that it might burn us.”
But Rouletabille, without paying any further attention to his companion’s bad mood, had suddenly accelerated his pace in such a way that La Candeur, who was then pushing the little cart, had difficulty keeping up with him.
“Where are you running off to like that?” he complained, from behind. “Are you sure you’re not going crazy? Can’t you see that there’s a crowd up ahead? What are all these people doing? It’s full of officers, old man! Don’t go that way, damn it! Oh my God! But I’m not dreaming…Rouletabille! Rouletabille! Look, there, in that group behind the officers—it’s Vladimir!”
“Well, didn’t I promise you that you’d see him tonight?” Rouletabille whispered to him, stopping suddenly. “Now veer to the left. Look over there, between the big crane and the locomotive. See that man standing at the entrance to the workshop—don’t you recognize him? Don’t you recognize him? He’s well illuminated by the flames emerging from the crucibles, though. One might think that he were in the fire. Yes! The man raising his arm, who looks as if he’s commanding the fire!”
“But that’s…that the Emperor!” murmured La Candeur, recoiling instinctively. Terrified, he immediately added: “Let’s get out of here!”
“On the contrary,” said Rouletabille. “Let’s follow him.”
Chapter XVI
The Master of Fire
It was while shivering that Dante arrived at the final threshold of the Inferno, and perceived the monarch of the Empire of Tears. It was with chattering teeth that Rouletabille’s companion rested his fearful gaze on the God of Fire, the modern Lucifer. Tottering, La Candeur leaned on his audacious friend’s shoulder, not so much in order to follow him as to try to stop him.
Yes, the man they had before them was the very man who called himself the Terror of the World. His face, like that of Satan, was red with fire. An insane pride elevated his stature and inflated his armor. His flamboyant helmet, with bore a bird of prey, crowned him with a frightful crest. His hideous features assembled in his face all the fatal marks that have stigmatized the fallen archangels since the Creature turned against his Creator.
And where, then, could the rage and vengeance, after the devastated dream, be expressed in sharper relief on the face of the accursed one, than in the cycle in which destruction prepared its weapons and its thunderbolts: at Krupp’s!—between the rivers of flame that only consented to cool down in order to reignite more fiercely over the world reduced to ashes! Do not seek elsewhere for the abode of evil; it is there; there is the heart of crimes and torments; it is there that it necessary to see the man!
Tonight, he has gathered around him illustrious friends, timid allies and important neutral individuals who have not dared to refuse his invitation; he has made that cohort come a long way to visit his inferno. He needs to be seen in all his force and malediction. Some emerging therefrom will be reaffirmed in their faith; others will resume their route, terrorized. Where, better than at Essen, can terror be forged?
“Let’s get out of here!” begged La Candeur. “I don’t want to look at him anymore! He’s too ugly!”
“No, that man isn’t ugly. A monster isn’t ugly. A monster is a monster—which is to say, something outside humanity and universal life, who can’t be compared to anything else.”
The man is incomparable. There is no rival to Satan in Gehenna, because he is the only being entirely at home there. He is the soul of disaster and ruination, and it is his breath that passes over the furnaces of Essen and gives life to the molten steel, and the form required in order that Death might be more powerful upon the earth, and might laugh at all the obstacles imagined by the fear or prudence of human be
ings.
Where, then, is that primordial era in which Skeletal Death came to humans with a scythe in his hand? Now, he scythes with a 420.
Fire can refuse nothing to its master. Fire gives him everything he desires, and, at this very moment, like a chained dragon that accepts its slavery, fire is licking the master with all its tongues.
Before the open crucibles, and amid the tumultuous delight of the giant hammers, the Master of Fire explains the infernal miracle over which he presides; from the depths of the furnaces, through roaring mouths, slaves withdraw blocks of flame that they deposit in a matrix. Then a powerful arm advances, moved by an invincible and docile force, toward the matrix obstructed by the red ingot. Then the arm sinks into the soft and incandescent material, which molds itself around it. When the arm has pierced the block of steel from end to end, it is placed in another, narrower matrix, and another, stouter, arm reiterates the work of the first. Then the ingot becomes a tube, whole walls are thinned by each new thread. When it is finished, one has a canon. It only remains to score it. It is rapid. It is the new procedure with which, in two hours, one can make a cannon. Once, when the boring was cold, it took a day and a half! And Death was waiting! Death, the peevish spouse of the Master of the House, must not be made to wait...
For two hours, the Master has been showing his guests around his domain in this fashion. All the workshops, all the gulfs, open before him and his retinue. Even the most secret forges, which no profane eye has yet dared to penetrate, open momentarily in order that the man’s pride might be satisfied, and the publicity of terror that he has decided to spread throughout the world perfected.
Rouletabille at Krupp's Page 12