“Of course, and the proof is that after playing it with your consent she is now playing without it. Does Madame Boulenger know anything of this?”
“I think not. She imagines that she has won a new husband for herself, and she would be greatly astonished, I dare say, if she were told that he has begun his flirtation again,”
“Oh, but with Ivana!... In reality you and she were to blame at first.... Don’t get excited.... You are pretty sure that your wife is not deceiving you in the worst sense of the term. That’s something, at any rate. You are going to leave the country soon. Don’t build up a tragedy for yourself on the basis of tuberculosis in cocks and hens!”
“You say that my wife is not deceiving me. I don’t know,” returned Rouletabille deliberately, rising to his feet. “When a woman lies to her husband she is deceiving him. I have told you how the deceit began, and perhaps when I see you next I will tell you how it has ended.”
With that he left me, clasping my hand in a manner which more fully betrayed his agitation than the expression on his face.
Three days went by. Then I learnt by telephone from him that his departure for Asia Minor had been accelerated, and that he was leaving France with Ivana during the following week. I congratulated him on so sensible a decision, and from that moment I considered that husband and wife were safe.
Two evenings later I happened to be seated with some friends in a box at the Opéra Comique when they called my attention to Monsieur Parapapoulos, the well-known Greek.
“Do you know that he has succeeded Prince Henry in Théodora Luigi’s good graces?” someone said.
“She hasn’t mourned the loss of Prince Henry for very long,” I returned.
“She’s not one of that sort,” my friend went on, “Princes and diplomatists contend for her smiles. After the death of the Grand Duke Michael Androvitch, whose fair friend she had remained for ten years, she accepted the attentions of Prince Prozor to whom she was introduced at his funeral. But look, there she is!”
And indeed Theodora Luigi had taken her seat in a box opposite, next to the stage box occupied by Monsieur Parapapoulos. I was never more struck with her fatal beauty. Her dark eyes, her pallid complexion, her set, disdainful face was not illumined by the faintest flicker of interest when Monsieur Parapapoulos leaning towards her spoke to her, smiling pleasantly.
We could not hear his words, but we could imagine their gallantry by the Greek’s manner. Theodora did not seem even to listen to him, nor did she glance at him while he was speaking. She spoilt my evening. I tried not to look at her, but I could not take my eyes away in spite of myself. She sent a shudder through me, and I did not envy Monsieur Parapapoulos.
During the intervals I wandered into the corridors to escape the obsession. I repeatedly passed a gentleman attired in an evening dress of a somewhat common cut, whose face was not unfamiliar to me. My eyes encountered his for a moment, and then I remembered him. It was Detective-Inspector Tamar, who had obtained admission for Rouletabille and myself to the Villa Fleurie on the day of the assault. I inferred from his presence that he, too, was following the succession of Prince Henry, and was now keeping watch over the happiness of Monsieur Parapapoulos.
It was then Saturday and Rouletabille’s departure was fixed for the following Wednesday. I was to dine with him on the Tuesday. On Tuesday morning I received a note from him asking me to be at his place at six o’clock. I arrived at the flat earlier than I intended. I saw from the clock in the drawing-room that it was half-past five. My eagerness may easily be understood. I took a seat and was turning over the pages of an illustrated paper when there was a ring at the front door. I heard the murmur of voices, and the servant opened the drawing-room door and ushered in Madame Boulenger. I was delighted to see her. Twice I had called on her without having the good fortune to find her at home. I expressed my regrets, and she assured me that she was equally disappointed.
I saw that she was greatly changed, but singularly beautiful in her pallor. Obviously she had not fully recovered, in a physical sense, from the terrible shock which she had received, but she was dressed with an elegance which by no means displeased me, for it bore witness to the fact that this woman had found happiness again, or believed that she had found it, which is often the same thing. She spoke to me of her husband with wonderful affection, and alluded to the incident at St. Adresse only to give me to understand that she was willing to undergo like horrors since they led to such glad results. With an egotism which was natural in the circumstances, she displayed little interest in us personally, and spoke of Ivana but to regret that she was not continuing her work with Roland Boulenger from which she, herself, had derived the greatest advantage.
“Rouletabille is somewhat jealous,” she said, with a kind, pensive smile. “I can’t blame him, but I have found Ivana very amenable to reason. I should like to see her so as to offer her my thanks and good wishes.”
And so Thérèse, who had proved to us that she was the best of women, and, as we knew, was adorned with every virtue and delicacy of feeling, had no word with which to thank us for all that we had done for her, and seemed to entertain a slight feeling of resentment against Ivana for allowing Boulenger to continue his work alone. Clearly she failed to comprehend how anyone who had had the honour of working with a man like Boulenger could resolve to leave him. She was certainly devoted to him!
Rouletabille had not yet appeared. It was now half-past five. Thérèse rose from her chair and took leave of me, asking me to convey her excuses to Rouletabille, and to tell him that she had to be home before Roland came back.
I, myself, began to lose patience, and I was pacing up and down the room somewhat restlessly when Rouletabille arrived. He seemed to be greatly excited. Madame Boulenger, whom he had met on the stairs, came back with him.
“But, I say, what’s the matter?” she exclaimed. “Are you angry with me?... Look here, we can have this out before Sainclair. I quite see that it is useless to go on lying to you. Just now I tried to throw your friend off the scent. But I lay down my arms, and you can do with me as you please — strike me if you want to, but whatever you do, don’t quarrel with Ivana, poor child. You threw at me on the stairs a ‘Good-day, Madame’ which condemned me in advance. Well, I accept the condemnation. Yes, it was I who arranged that they should meet and work at Dr. Schall’s, since it was necessary for them to keep out of your way in order to work....
“You were seen yesterday prowling round the nursing home, and I came here to discover what state of mind you were in. You are raging within yourself. You know everything.
I thought as much, and now I am certain. It’s abominable, of course — absolutely abominable.
“Before going abroad for several months Ivana agreed to put into proper shape the results of her work with my husband so that their labours should not be lost. That’s a thing that you cannot forgive. But you do not know, my poor boy, what scientists are. You live in a world of imagination and newspaper work from day to day. You cannot conceive what the scientist’s brain is like, nor the spirit which animates him... his steadfastness of mind in the pursuit of an idea. The scientist does not relax his efforts until he has reached the goal, that is to say, until he has substantiated his idea — or he dies. I am speaking, of course, of a man of genius. He leads his followers through the obscurities which beset his path, and if they are worthy of him they are as tenacious as he is.... And here we have Ivana working with Roland Boulenger in Dr. Schall’s office. What a crime!... Tell me here and now that you forgive her or I shall never forgive you for forcing this duplicity on us, you tyrant!... And be quick because I am late,” she ended, pointing to the timepiece.
Madame Boulenger’s vehement harangue engrossed my attention and caused me to turn my eyes from Rouletabille. I glanced at him as she uttered her last word. His face was set with an air of impassivity; and he made no reply to her.
“I see that I made a mistake to come up again,” said the poor woman as she moved towards the
door.
Rouletabille, who was usually the essence of politeness, did not show her out. I escorted her, and in the corridor she was seized with an attack of weakness and almost fell into my arms.
“I shall be back almost immediately,” I called out to Rouletabille. “I’ll take care of Madame Boulenger.”
She thanked me with a look, for she was in reality feeling very faint. When we got outside I stopped a taxi and helped her into it.
“Where shall I take you?” I asked.
“Drive me to Dr. Schall’s,” she returned, with a wan smile. “I’m sorry, but I can see that Roland and I have lost a friend. I feel very worried about Ivana.”
“They’ll forget all about it when they are abroad, and I’ll bring Rouletabille back to you,” I promised.
She thanked me with a gentle pressure of the hand.
I left her outside Dr. Schall’s nursing home. She seemed to be almost herself again.
“I shall tell Roland how kind you’ve been, and warn our poor Ivana of the scene which is in store for her.”
“Women always know how to obtain forgiveness. Rouletabille is not so bad as he looks,” I made answer, endeavouring to reassure her.
Ten minutes later I was back in Rouletabille’s flat. The clock struck six. I found him in the drawing-room still seated in the same chair. Without speaking he led me to his study, sat down at his roll-top desk, opened it, drew three letters from a secret drawer, and passed them over for me to read. They were letters from Roland to Ivana, in which no mention was made of tuberculosis in birds.
The most ardent love was put into words with naïve recklessness. I do not repeat them here because it is entirely unnecessary, and, moreover, I cannot remember their exact terms. Nevertheless, they left upon me the impression — indeed, more than the impression, the certainty — that Ivana had refused him in the most friendly manner and, in any case, had not overstepped the limits of the game.
I said as much to Rouletabille, and it was only then that I observed the agitation which possessed him. Until then he had controlled himself, but now he burst out:
“She’s a wretch!”
And then, as if ashamed of betraying with a cry the extent of his despair, he covered his face with his hands and remained for several moments without uttering a word. He mastered his emotion, and stifled the sob which trembled in his throat. When I saw his face again, he showed me a face which had become sunken, furrowed, old, but grinning with frigid mockery. I saw a new Rouletabille — a man who had lost faith in things. I no longer recognized him. His youth, his generous trust, the intelligence pictured in his face, his simple confidence in a man of genius devoted to the service of truth, his eyes glowing with animation — all these things had vanished, leaving a mask behind which was but the ashes of his former self.
“I have discovered everything,” he cried. “I have sounded the depths of shame. Now I know what men are. A woman was my guide in the secret game which I thought I understood, and in which I entered with a light heart. Now the trickery of it frightens and the truth appals me.... Presently you will see that woman come in. She will offer her face to me and shake hands with you. Imagine that I’ve told you nothing, and you would think that here were the soft warmth of the hearth and the love of husband and wife in its best and noblest sense. She will be charming and quite at her ease. She will have a kiss for her husband and a smile for his friend. She will speak of her work, and we shall listen to her.... Well, my dear Sainclair, she will have come from Boulenger’s arms.
“I wrote to you asking you here so that you should witness what was about to take place. When I discovered my misfortune I could have killed her, but I have been through too many stages in my search for ‘the whole truth,’ I have too often foreseen what was about to happen, to let myself give way to passion. And then to kill her would be to show that I still loved her, and she would be the victor. No, she shall live. I thought of you. You took refuge in scorn. I shall express my disgust of her without seeming to be surprised, and, go my way, turning my back on her.”
He took his pipe from his pocket, but did not fill it. He ended by throwing it with a fierce gesture on the desk, and stood up, giving way to a terrible gasp: “Oh, Sainclair!...” We fell into each other’s arms.
But our outburst did not last long. A maid came in to tell us that some “gentlemen” wished to speak to Monsieur Rouletabille. These “gentlemen” followed closely on her heels.
“Hullo, Mifroid,” exclaimed Rouletabille, as he recognized the popular Commissary of Police, who was well known to all Paris. “What brings you here?”
I could not help, notwithstanding the tragic circumstances, but admire the art with which Rouletabille at once managed to conceal his agitation.
The Commissary closed the door in the faces of the other “gentlemen,” and took a step forward into the study.
“My poor friend,” he said, ignoring the hand which Rouletabille held out to him. “I have some terrible news for you. If it were anyone else I should keep back the truth.... Your wife has been murdered.”
Rouletabille uttered a cry, and clutched my arm.
“Murdered!” he repeated in a hoarse voice. “Where?”
“In La Roche Lane at Passy. I have a car outside if you care to come with me.”
Rouletabille was like a man in a stupor. He stared at me with eyes from which every gleam of intelligence had fled. As may readily be imagined, I did not leave him. quarter of an hour later we were at the far end of Passy, outside a house surrounded by high walls. On the way I endeavoured to question the Commissary of Police, but he did not appear to possess much information. He could not even say at what hour the crime was committed. Moreover, I was myself completely dazed by the cruelly sudden course which events had taken.
I remember vaguely walking across a garden dotted with thick-spreading trees, mounting a staircase, and passing through a room wherein on a round table lay the remains of a light lunch. Lastly I remember entering a bedroom which was in the greatest disorder. A number of officials and policemen stood aside for us, and we beheld two bodies lying on the carpet — they were the bodies of Roland Boulenger and Ivana.
Boulenger’s clothes bore no sign of a struggle. He had received two bullets, one straight in the heart, which had shattered in its course the watch in his waistcoat pocket, and the other in the left lung, which had entered at the back. Ivana likewise had received two bullets. One of them had struck her left hip and must have been fired during a short struggle, for the right shoulder piece of her dress was torn, the sleeve crumpled, and the right wrist and the skin of the hand slightly cut.
The second bullet, which was in the temple, appeared to have been fired as the finishing stroke and in order, once for all, to make an end of her. Nevertheless, Ivana was still breathing. Let me say here and now that a fifth bullet was discovered in the ceiling, thus affording additional evidence that a struggle had taken place with the man or woman who had brought death into that house.
I have said that Ivana was still alive. She opened her eyes and fixed them steadily on Rouletabille with a supreme appeal, and I clearly saw her lips part as if to kiss him.
Then there was a pitiful moan, and the thud of a body on the floor. It was Rouletabille, who had fallen on his knees. Thrusting aside the doctor he pressed a last kiss on the lips of his dying wife.
And so he received her last breath.... We had the greatest difficulty in tearing him away from the beloved form.
“She was innocent,” he whispered, as though he were about to die himself. “My poor Ivana!”
We carried rather than led him into the adjoining room, and one of the officials suddenly put the question to him:
“Do you know this house?”
Rouletabille raised his head and gave the magistrate a penetrating glance.
“I have seen it to-day for the first time.”
“And at what hour did you leave it for the first time?”
The poor fellow wavered for a sec
ond, turned his eyes on us, and at last said in an undertone:
“I don’t follow you.”
“I will tell you myself,” went on the magistrate. “You left this house at five o’clock, and these murders were committed at precisely five minutes to five.”
Rouletabille drew himself up, his whole being expressing revolt:
“So you think I murdered her!”
That night he slept in La Santé prison.
PART II
CHAPTER IX
THEORIES
“ROULETABILLE ARRESTED!” THE sensation which the astounding event caused in Paris may easily be conjectured. And when a few hours later the nature of the crime of which the well-known journalist was accused became public property, the entire city, it seemed, could think and speak of nothing else but the tragic scandal.
Following so shortly after the drama at St. Adresse, which had in itself excited enormous curiosity, the frightful slaughter at Passy completely overwhelmed public opinion. The names of Rouletabille and Roland Boulenger were on every tongue. I have before my eyes the newspapers of the following morning. They are full of the appalling incident.
In a general way, though the disappearance from the scene of a scientific personality of the Professor’s eminence was greatly deplored, the press agreed that in view of the contempt which he showed for ordinary morality, Roland had almost inevitably reached the end of his good fortune, and it reserved its compassion for the one interesting victim left by Rouletabille’s revolver — poor Thérèse Boulenger, who herself would, doubtless, die from the shock.
As to Rouletabille, public opinion, following the usual course in matters of morals, by no means regarded his conduct as culpable. A husband discovers his wife and a friend together in circumstances which leave him no doubt of the object of the meeting, and makes away with the two guilty parties — there was nothing new in that.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 92