Rouletabille at Krupp's

by Gaston Leroux

The comment was heard and enjoyed great success. Von Berg began by declaring that Julius Caesar was only an imbecile by comparison with the Emperor, and that the Emperor would destroy anything he had to, even Magic-City, if necessary, in order that Kultur would triumph over the entire world.

  “That is, moreover, what our friends—and, we can even add, after parading our gazes around this vast table, some of our enemies—have already began to understand very well.”

  At these last words, Rouletabille could not help blushing all the way to his earlobes. Nicole, for her part, did not blush at all, but she looked at Rouletabille, who looked at her. They both seemed to understand one another, and lowered their noses toward their plates.

  The movement had undoubtedly been noticed by the brilliant assembly, for the brilliant assembly burst out in applause and cries of “Hoch!” and “Hurrah!”

  The reporter was less concerned with his own shame and humiliation, which he hoped to be able to follow up soon with a striking vengeance, than the sentiments of rage and dolor that must be afflicting Nicole’s heart.

  He was grateful to the young woman for showing so much wisdom in the face of monsters who were mocking her and her country. Rouletabille had only to recall the outburst of fury that had concluded the last meeting of Nicole and Serge to estimate the cost of Fulbert’s daughter’s silence in the face of von Berg’s last words.

  She did not flinch. She was thus being obedient to him, Rouletabille, and proving that she had a confidence in him that, as we know, extended all the way to death. All the same, for a woman like her, it is easier to die than to hear it said that one has become a friend of the Boche without protest.

  She deserves to be saved, the reporter swore to himself, and I shall save her.

  At that moment, the aged hauptmann who was seated to his right leaned toward Rouletabille and said: “Admit that a great many nasty things have been said in your country about our Emperor—the world doesn’t know who it’s slandering. Do you know why His Majesty came to Essen recently? Because the rumor was beginning to run around the world that the inventor Fulbert’s daughter had been maltreated here. He wanted to render account personally of the value of those rumors, and you can see with your own eyes how we’re looking after the inventor Fulbert’s daughter! Look, someone’s pouring her more champagne—genuine French champagne, purchased in Reims, which can’t do her any harm. Ach! The Emperor, you see, my dear Monsieur, if I may be forgiven for making use of an English term, is a perfect gentleman! Always a perfect gentleman! So, one would kill oneself for him. Me, I’m an old crock who’s already set my bones marching three times, but he has only to give the sign, and I’d go back. My old carcass belongs to him! He’s a perfect gentleman!”

  “Could you pass me the red cabbage?” asked the young cousin on Rouletabille’s left, “and pour me some sauce, and stop listening to that old bore who’ll be telling us about his campaigns next. When you’re seated near him at dinner your head aches as if someone had been using it as a dartboard for three days. Ach? All these people are too serious for a girl like me—a young backfisch who has been to Paris and knows how to appreciate Franzosiche frivolitet!”

  Many other amicable or menacing things were said during the engagement meal. Fräulein Helena was radiant and the excellent Richter never ceased looking at her with eyes softened by the charm of a carnation and the good taste of a dress that was almost the same color as the carnation. Add blue ribbons to all that, and fasten it around the body of a goddess with a silver-buckled belt, decorated with little rhinestones, and you won’t be at all astonished that the worthy Richter was in love.

  We shall not waste time either in listing the numerous enormous dishes that were politely “cleared” during that little fête by guests rendered very joyful by the most highly-appreciated vintages of German and French wine, and also—it is necessary to be truthful—by the certainty of the imminent triumph of kultur.

  From that viewpoint, the patriotic delirium was beginning to take on interesting proportions at dessert—which was, as is appropriate, a time for toasts. They were numerous, and full of a redoubtable spirit.

  A regiment that came to parade before the windows of the banquet brought the general delight to a head, with the echo of the precise and heavy rhythm of a thousand boots hammering the soil of old Germany simultaneously; and as, almost immediately, hundreds of voices began intoning a flamboyant martial song, the guests joined in with Am Rhein, am Rhein, Am Deutchen Rhein—while, of course, raising their glasses with gestures imitative of the brandishing of sabers. The whole performance was terminated by roars of Russen kaput! Englander kaput! and a host of other kaputs! which inevitably included Franzosen kaput!

  Rouletabille, red in the face, sank his fingernails into the palms of his hands, while looking anxiously at Nicole—who seemed a trifle agitated.

  Then came the speeches, and more toasts...

  Finally, they left the table and spread out into the drawing-rooms to take coffee and liqueurs and smoke horrid cigars.

  That was the moment for which Rouletabille had been waiting in order to get close to Nicole. In the general hubbub, he was able to join her in the corner of a drawing-room and, slipping surreptitiously to her side, he gave her the little phial that Vladimir had brought and said: “Take this. There’s enough to put your guard to sleep, and Helena, if necessary, and the entire Hans family. Twenty drops per person is sufficient. Put in thirty!”

  Nicole looked at Rouletabille without making a movement.

  “Put the phial in your pocket!”

  “In a moment. People are looking at us. Have you anything more to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then speak swiftly. We don’t know whether we’ll have another opportunity.”

  “Well,” he said, “it’s set for tonight, at three o’clock in the morning sharp. Leave the Hans house in Helena’s clothes, mantle and hood. Go to Richter’s house. If anyone catches sight of you, don’t pay them any heed. An amorous rendezvous on the night of an engagement dinner isn’t going to astonish anyone in Germany. Go up the steps; a window will open and you’ll be lifted into the small workroom.”

  “Who’ll take me in? You?”

  “Me or someone else. I’ll be very busy. Let yourself be guided; everything will be done under my orders. If you aren’t there by three-thirty, it will be because something unexpected has prevented you from getting out of the Hans house. In that case, stay in your room. I’ll come to look for you there.”

  “Are you sure it will succeed?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Because your promise still stands.”

  “Still.”

  Nicole smiled at Rouletabille.

  Then, suddenly, the young man took on a waxen pallor, and left Nicole. He had to turn away in order to hide his visible disturbance, for he had just seen General von Berg looking at both of them attentively.

  He avoided the general, because at that moment, the reporter might have found it impossible to say anything. His hesitant steps took him through the rejoicing crowd in search of Vladimir, and once he was close to the Slav again it was in such a changed voice that he spoke to him that Vladimir was immediately alarmed.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Listen Vladimir, listen! Why isn’t Princess Botosani here? Wasn’t she invited?”

  “Yes, of course she was invited!”

  Rouletabille could not conceal a movement of joy, and the color returned to his cheeks. “Oh, my God!” he said. “My God! Is it possible? You’re sure? You’re sure of that?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what you just told me—that Princes Botosani was invited.”

  “Absolutely. Not only did she tell me, but I saw the printed invitation.”

  “Heavens above! I’m coming back to life. Who sent out the invitations?”

  “General von Berg himself.”

  “Thank you! You don’t know how much good you’ve done me.”

  “But once ag
ain, what’s happening? It seemed to be going so well a little while ago. I saw you talking to Nicole. She smiled as if she were with the angels.”

  “That’s true,” said Rouletabille, in a grave tone. “She smiled at me. Mark my words, Vladimir, that young woman is sublime. There’s nothing in the world more beautiful or heroic than Nicole.” He paused momentarily, and then added: “Now tell me why Princess Botosani, who as invited, hasn’t come to the engagement party.”

  “Do you need to speak to her, then?”

  “I don’t know her,” Rouletabille said, “And I don’t want to know her. I don’t have anything to say to her.”

  “No regrets then.”

  “Yes, al the same, I regret…I regret a great deal. But you haven’t told me the reason for her absence. Is she ill, perhaps?”

  “Not at all—but this morning, when she was trying on a magnificent dress, which would have made her the queen of the fête—for she always wants to be the star everywhere—she received orders to go to a business lunch where she was to meet a special envoy from Enver Pacha, a representative of the Wilhelmstrasse and another important person whose name she didn’t want to give me.”

  Rouletabille’s color had vanished again. “Strange!” he murmured. “A fatal coincidence!” And he passed his hand over his forehead, which was beaded with cold sweat.

  He drew away from Vladimir and moved closer to Nicole. The latter perceived him, passed close to him and said to him: “I’m counting on you. I always keep my promises. Keep yours!” And she smiled once again, as one smiles at the angels.

  Rouletabille let himself fall into a large leather armchair. He remained there, his head buried in his hands, for a few moments. Then he got up, and rejoined Vladimir in a shadowy corner where they were able to chat undisturbed for five minutes.

  When they emerged from that shadow, they were both as pale as one another.

  Nelpas Pacha went to salute von Berg, Helena and Richter, asking their permission to withdraw because he felt slightly indisposed. On considering the appearance of Enver Pacha’s representative, the others had no difficulty in believing it. He therefore took his leave. As he was going through a small room that lead to the main staircase, he found himself face to face with Rouletabille between two doors.

  “Embrace me!” the latter said to him. “We might never see one another again!”

  Vladimir hugged him with even more emotion than in Paris.

  “Say farewell to La Candeur!” said Vladimir, in a tearful voice, and, without looking back, launched himself toward the stairway.

  “Poor La Candeur!” sighed Rouletabille, left alone. “I’m the one who brought him here!”

  And with the tips of his fingers, he wiped away a large tear that was running down his cheek.

  Then he went back to the drawing-rooms, where he soon astonished Richter himself by the great authority with which he explained to a few specialists his personal notions regarding the manufacture of sewing-machines...

  Chapter XIX

  To Be or Not to Be

  Snow is falling in Essen. That is also part of the Inferno: cold. An icy night in Krupp’s: a black and white night; the black of whirlwinds of smoke, the white of whirlwinds of snow. A furious wind mixes all of that together. More than any other corner of the factory, Richter’s kommando disappears in that sinister mobile white-stained shadow, for the buildings comprising it are not aflame with the intermittent fulgurant gleams emerging from the crucibles and forges of the workshops of war.

  Behind the engineer’s offices there is a small deserted courtyard, only used for the private and domestic services of Richter and his family.

  Suddenly, a window overlooking that courtyard opens, and a shadow lets itself slip down on to the carpet of snow, whose pallor is scarcely visible in the thick darkness guarded by the high walls.

  Is that living shadow the shadow of a man or an animal? Like the shadow of a dog, it walks on all fours through the snow. It goes back and forth along the wall, seemingly sniffing the ground like a hunting dog scenting a trail. Then it stands up beside the wall. It is definitely a human shadow.

  A rope is thrown over the wall by the man, and must be fitted with a grappling-iron that has hooked on to some projection, or some significantly-pierced iron bar, for at the first tug, the rope does not yield to the hand pulling it, and supports the body that immediately makes use of it to climb.

  The wall is old, and beneath the agile feet that use it as a point of support, a few small stones are detached and fall into the snow. Undoubtedly, however, the shadow does not think that depredation sufficient, for as soon as it arrives at the crest of the wall, it detaches a few more fragments, which fall inside and outside the courtyard. Then the shadow disappears outside the enclosure, after having thrown the rope down on the other side of the wall.

  A few minutes go by.

  Now the rope is thrown down into the courtyard again and the shadow, returning, lets itself slide down to the ground. After making a few bizarre gestures, the man becomes an animal again, and returns on all fours to the window from which it emerged, but moving backwards.

  Having arrived at that window, it goes back into the Richter house. It bumps into another shadow, which asks it: “Do you still need my shoes? Damn it, I’m shivering…and for our affair, it’s necessary not to catch a cold in the head!”

  “Here are your boots—stop complaining,” says Rouletabille, freeing his hands from the enormous shoes into which they had been inserted, and which he has used to create, in the snow, in company with his own, a visible trail, with the evident intention of fostering the belief that a small group of runaways has taken a route that the young people obviously have no intention of following.

  “What about the warehouse supervisor?” asks Rouletabille, in a whisper, while working with a pick, which he is using as a master key to force a door very gently—an operation doubtless necessary to create belief in a false trail.

  “The warehouse supervisor?” La Candeur repeats while putting his shoes on again with a broad smile of satisfaction. “Bah—he won’t give us away.”

  “You’ve killed Lasker?”

  “I had to. He found my with the crates, and was too interested in what I was doing—asked me questions that worried me…worried me so much, old chap, that I was obliged to make triply certain that he’d never question me again! I’ve had a sprained wrist since the fireman-sergeant, you know?”

  “And where did you put the body?”

  “Exactly! I don’t know what to do with it—inspiration isn’t my strong suit. For the time being, I hid it under a pile of waste paper.”

  “But they’ll find it right away, idiot! You say that Lasker won’t give us away—you didn’t think that his corpse will give us away! And we’ll be captured before we get out of the warehouse.”

  “Damn it! What shall we do, then?”

  “Listen—this is what you’re going to do. Take another sewing-machine out of its crate and replace it in the stack of those that aren’t yet ready to be packed. Then put Lasker’s body in the crate. He’ll escape with us!”

  “Understood—and right away!” whispered La Candeur, about to carry out the order he had just received.

  Rouletabille stopped him. “One moment! Don’t go without telling me where you put the firemen’s uniforms and caps.”

  “Over there, in the wooden box.”

  “Go!”

  La Candeur’s shadow disappeared into a corridor, and in spite of the shadow being shod this time in the huge boots, it made no more sound than when gliding in socks; the habit of the reportage, as dangerous as it was exceptional, accomplished by La Candeur in Rouletabille’s company had given the latter a great discretion of movement.

  In the meantime, Rouletabille finished the task that he knew to be necessary to the security of their departure; nothing had been neglected to make sure that the consequent search would go astray.

  When La Candeur came back and announced that Lasker’s body
was suitably packed, Rouletabille was in the process of putting on one of the firemen’s uniforms. The reporter struck a match and looked at his watch.

  “It’s time!” he said. He rolled up the other uniforms under his arm. “Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you. I’ll leave the Richter house by the front door. You stay in the design-studio. No one ever goes there, especially by night. Only Richter can get in, but after today’s little party he’ll be sleeping profoundly, like everyone else.”

  “All the same, what if he comes?”

  “If he comes, kill him.”

  “Understood—but what with? My wrist’s injured.”

  “With this,” said Rouletabille, going to his small work-room, from which he returned with a heavy lever terminated by a sold mass, which made the steel bar into a redoubtable hammer. Momentarily, the moon illuminated the weapon, which was set down within La Candeur’s reach on a drawing-board.

  “Look—the moon’s rising!” La Candeur remarked. “One can see clearly enough to work.”

  The star was immediately veiled, however. The wind that had not ceased blowing had, however, cleared the lugubrious night of some of its swirling smoke and chased away the storm-clouds.

  “Don’t budge from this spot until you see a shadow appear on the steps. I’ll leave you Richter’s key. Open the door to that shadow—you’ll recognize it; it will be Nicole, in Helena’s clothes and headgear. Bring her in and say to her: ‘Rouletabille will come!’ That’s all, understand? No noise, no unnecessary chat. You have nothing else to say to her. If she questions you, you won’t reply. Understood?”

  “Understood. But what if she doesn’t come?”

  “If she isn’t here when I get back, it’s agreed that I’ll go to find her—but you don’t budge.”

  “All right!”

  “Obey, and nothing more. Since you’re devoid of inspiration, don’t imagine that you should do things that might seem ordinary to you but might have terrible consequences!”

  “I’ll obey like a brute.”

  “Adieu!”

  “Adieu.”