“Good, generous-hearted, foolish Ivana! You hastened to meet the danger. You arrived in time to see the woman whose last hope was perhaps shattered, shoot down the man for whom you had sacrificed our peace of mind, and were about to sacrifice your life. For as you tried to wrest her victim from her, that woman shot you.”
The picture which Rouletabille evoked seemed to me the delusion of a mind distracted with despair, of a man who was no longer master of himself; and we could but pity him as we heard him shout accusations devoid of sequence and words little more than cries.
“She shot you! She shot you with fierce delight for this woman who declared that she loved you as a sister was madly jealous of you; more jealous of you than she was of Théodora Luigi. This woman dreamed a monstrous dream — to get you out of the way, to have you murdered by Théodora Luigi, for it was she who sent Théodora Luigi a forged letter in order to induce her to hasten to the meeting in the house at Passy. And though Théodora Luigi did not appear Thérèse had her murder — her murders all the same. This woman, who pretended to be all affection, and whom other people spoke of as being all affection, was consumed with a deadly hatred. For a long time she had been reckoning on her husband’s destruction. I say ‘reckoning’ advisedly. Gentlemen, this woman had been dreaming for some time of sending Roland Boulenger to the guillotine.”
He was raving....
Madame Boulenger uttered a terrible cry and fell into a dead faint. The Judge suspended the Court.
CHAPTER XXIV
LIGHT
FOR MYSELF I was overcome, staggered rather than shocked. Rouletabille in his wrath presented the same spectacle as Rouletabille in his delirium. When I was able to utter a word, however, I strove to make myself understood by him, though suddenly he assumed once more a blank expression and a far-away look which transported him, as it were, to the other end of the world.
“You forget one thing, namely, that at half-past five, the time when the crime was committed, Madame Boulenger was with me in your flat. I shall not wait until she remembers it to say so!”
He made no answer. He still maintained his look of remote abstraction, troubling no more about me than if I had never existed.
A quarter of an hour later the trial was resumed, and when Madame Boulenger came into Court it seemed as if she were turned to stone by the horrors which Rouletabille had heaped upon her. The hollows round her eyes had sunk deeper, the furrows ploughed by sorrow had become more pronounced, her cheeks were drawn. Her beauty had almost in a moment departed. An intense feeling of compassion went out to her, for though it was now suspected that she had played a more formidable part in the tragedy than was thought until then, no one could credit Rouletabille’s ravings.
The Presiding Judge began by reprimanding and warning him. He reminded him that he was in the dock less to accuse others than to defend himself, and that in any case if he made an attack on an eminent lady whose reputation had hitherto been stainless, and bright with the soft light of every virtue, he should do so in language which would not outrage the public conscience, and, in particular, conduct his unforeseen method of defence by producing evidence rather than denunciations.
Rouletabille made a motion of his head indicating that he understood, and resumed his speech in, quiet and measured accents which he ought never to have abandoned.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “my friend Sainclair has reminded me that at half-past five, when the crime was committed, Madame Boulenger was with him in my drawing-room. It is just this coincidence in this time — upon which we are all now agreed — and Madame Boulenger’s presence at my flat, which when I was casting about for the fourth person who played an essential part in the tragedy such as I understood it after my investigations — it was this coincidence which prevented me from acting on the theory that she was the murderer, and, in a sense, blocked my path.
“And I called to mind the persistence with which, without appearing to do so, Madame Boulenger drew our attention to the time marked by the clock. Even then it did not seem quite genuine. I gathered from what my friend, Sainclair, told me, that he was the first to be shown into my drawing-room, and he heard Madame Boulenger ring the doorbell. The servant ushered her into the room in which he was waiting for me. He did not leave her.
“In principle I had to forego the idea that Madame Boulenger might have been setting up an alibi for herself by putting the clock back half an hour. I say in principle but not in practice, for, in fact, I discovered that the thing was quite easily done. I learnt, on inquiry from my servant, that Madame Boulenger arrived at my flat five minutes before Sainclair and was shown into the drawing-room. Then she left, stating that she would return. She did, in fact, return, found Sainclair there, left once more, and came upstairs again with me. How are we to explain this persistence in returning to my place, this persistence in being seen at my place?
“I say that a woman whose interest it was to establish an alibi would have acted precisely in this way. I say no more. But, nevertheless, from the moment I knew of Madame Boulenger being alone in my drawing-room with the clock before her eyes, the coincidence in the matter of time no longer troubled me.
“That being so, gentlemen, I took my departure for Havre.
“Until then, impelled by an absolute belief in my wife’s innocence, in other words, in her honour; an innocence which presented itself to my mind only on the assumption that she had made no secret to Madame Boulenger of her appointment with the Professor at Passy — thus introducing the part played by Madame Boulenger in the drama as in a flash — until then, I say, I was but morally convinced of Madame Boulenger’s intervention, but I was by no means intellectually convinced nor, above all, had I any material proof. I was soon to discover the missing link. Having observed traces of Théodora Luigi’s footprints, I had to determine the part which she played in the case judging from these traces themselves; finally and chiefly, what were the circumstances in which she who was at Havre on the day before the murders had paid a hurried visit to Paris? It was at this juncture that I visited once again the villa on the cliff, where, the previous summer, a tragedy had been enacted which was, in a sense, the prelude to this one and in regard to which you are still in the dark....”
The Solicitor-General made, at this point, as if to rise, but the Presiding Judge forestalled him by observing:
“The tragedy at St. Adresse was investigated at the time and I hold that it is unnecessary to introduce it into this case.”
As Rouletabille’s counsel I at once protested against this attempt to limit the scope of the proceedings, but this time it was Rouletabille who calmed me.
“Gentlemen, the presence in this Court of Madame,” he continued, pointing to Théodora Luigi, “who has been good enough to accompany me here in order to assist you to unravel the plot of this intricate drama, should be a certain guarantee to you that nothing will be said to which exception can be taken by any single person. The shade of Prince Henry of Albania may rest in peace. The Prince was in no way involved in the shooting on the cliff.
“That being granted, I may be allowed to say, without, of course, dwelling upon the theory of an ‘accident’ which deceived nobody — I may be allowed to say that no one knew the truth in that business: neither the examining magistrates, who were under the impression that they suspected it, nor my wife, who arrived on the scene a few minutes after the shots were fired and received the spurious confidences of Madame Boulenger as she lay on a bed of sickness, nor Roland Boulenger himself, nor Théodora Luigi, who saw nothing of it and heard merely the revolver shots as they were fired behind closed doors. There are only two persons who know the truth, Madame” — Rouletabille pointed this time to Madame Boulenger, who seemed to have become transfixed like a statue—” Madame and myself....
“Gentlemen, when I returned to Paris, the preceding autumn, after the affair on the cliff, I had already discovered that the perpetrator of this attack could not have been Prince Henry of Albania, for this reason, among othe
rs, that the revolver with which Madame Boulenger was shot, had been purchased by Roland Boulenger himself, a few days before, from a gunsmith in Havre. And I returned to Paris with the idea that possibly it was Roland Boulenger who fired on his wife, and that she with greater nobility of character than ever had forgiven him....
“Nevertheless, many points remained obscure, and when, after the murders at Passy, I returned to Havre carrying in my mind the picture of a very different Thérèse Boulenger from that which had dwelt in it until then, as well as the memory of certain somewhat characteristic scenes which assumed their significance only in the light of this new idea, I determined to complete my investigation while at the same time devoting my attention to Theodora Luigi’s connection with the second crime.
“I had the good fortune to come into touch at Trouville with Roland Boulenger’s valet, Bernard, who under Madame Boulenger’s orders was there to collect various things from the villa at Deauville. I was disguised. He did not recognize me, and I turned the conversation to the drama on the cliff. One or two phrases had been running in my head since I heard them some time after this event, while I was in the villa at Deauville. Roland Boulenger said to Bernard:
“‘What does it matter, Bernard, if the revolver is lost? It can’t be helped. I shall only have to buy another. And don’t worry me any more about it!
“That was why I inferred for the time being that this ‘business’ about the revolver was singularly embarrassing for Boulenger and pointed him out as the guilty man....
“From my last conversation with Bernard at Trouville it appeared that Roland Boulenger himself was the first to be perturbed by the disappearance of the weapon, and had requested Bernard to find it for him. The whole position was changed. Had Roland Boulenger fired on his wife with this revolver, it would not have been to his interest to mention it, and still less to call his own valet’s attention to its disappearance....
“I continued to question Bernard systematically. For me, the thing was to ascertain whether the revolver was in Boulenger’s possession when he left that day for St. Adresse. I called to mind that he mounted his horse and rode off in great haste, and I asked Bernard if his master’s riding breeches contained a pistol pocket. They did not contain a pistol pocket, and that same morning after his master had left, Bernard took the revolver from the pocket of the trousers which Boulenger had been wearing the previous evening and put it in the drawer of the table by his bedside.... From that day the revolver could not be found. Who, therefore, could have taken it unless it were the person near whom it was afterwards found, though it was quickly concealed, for it was thought that it belonged to Prince Henry? Who else but Madame?” — and Rouletabille once more pointed an accusing finger at Madame Boulenger—” And I challenge her to deny it.”
“Well, yes, it’s true!” she cried. “I took the revolver to shoot myself and I shot myself twice. It’s true! I wanted to end my life. Was I not entitled to end my life? Had I not suffered enough?”
“Your scheme was to make the world believe that your husband had murdered you,” returned Rouletabille coldly, amid a considerable clamour, which was certainly not entirely hostile to her whom he was accusing.
“You villain!... I was devoted to my husband.”
“There are times when love in the heart of a woman becomes more terrible than hate, and is strangely confused with it,” returned Rouletabille in a muffled voice. “You went through such a time, Madame. I will tell you when....
“Just test your memory of a certain night in the villa at Deauville when I came upon you in the angle of the passage. I ought not to ask you to remember it, for, in very truth, I do not suggest that you saw me. But I saw you! You were leaving your husband’s room like a veritable fury. You were in a state of disorder, and wore a splendid dressing-gown. You had resumed your practice of dressing in the most elegant style. What would be more natural for a woman in love than to make herself beautiful for the man she loves? I assure you that I felt no inclination to treat the matter lightly. As I saw you that night leaving your husband’s room I was appalled. I was appalled because the veil which covered my eyes, and which you had thrown over the eyes of all of us, was rent asunder....
“Here was a woman, who by her outward demeanour seemed to attain the angelic. She displayed such stainless purity as scarcely pertained to this world. She said to whomsoever would listen to her, and she repeated it with rapture, that she was no longer anything but a mind and a heart. Her mind was capable of understanding all, and her heart of forgiving all. Roland Boulenger had ceased to be a man to her, but what did that matter as long as he remained a genius? We heard and the world heard her utter that sentiment.... Well, this woman was lying!
“This wife of the world unworldly, this helpmate, who claimed to be concerned only with the immortal task at which she was working by the side of a man of genius; this woman of pure mind and fine intelligence and exquisite nature who mingled together in one worship platonic love and the love of science — this woman was lying! This woman was wrung with an agony of despair because the love of her husband had gone out of her life, and under the mask of a pure-souled indifference she was consumed with a deadly hatred when his smile wandered to another woman.”
“And this woman tried to kill herself, that’s true!... And what then, Monsieur?”
“And this woman tried to kill herself! You had every right as you yourself said, but where you overstepped the limits of your right was when you sought a victim from a household which until then had lived in peace and happiness, and involved this victim in your cunningly devised scheme; it was when after the night on which you had arrayed yourself to no purpose, you concocted the monstrous plot of committing suicide in such circumstances as would make it appear that you were murdered by your husband — let me finish what I have to say, Madame — for it was with his revolver that you shot yourself outside his door, taking good care to shout ‘Roland! Murderer! Murderer!’”
“I shouted ‘Murder! Murder!’” cried Madame Boulenger hoarsely.
“Why should you shout ‘Murder!’ when no one was attacking you? I can produce evidence whenever you please that Prince Henry was dead when you tried to shoot yourself. You had made up your mind to die and bring about Roland’s destruction, and I will give you indisputable proof of it....
“The day after that night which had transformed your mad love into mad hate, you wrote a letter to Madame Lens, one of your friends in Paris. That letter caused her to hasten to you at Havre when, two days later, she learnt of the murders. In that letter you wrote to her, and I am quoting your exact words:
‘“Now he hates me... I can read it in his eyes. He would like to see me dead. Be prepared for some terrible tragedy. I am expecting it and I am ready for it. Should you hear of my death, you may say to yourself that it was he who killed me.’
“But you did not die from your wounds, and when Madame de Lens came to you at St. Adresse you could point to your husband on his knees before you. At that moment you believed that you had won back his affection, and you welcomed the story which was circulated before you came to yourself — the story that Prince Henry of Albania had attempted to murder you.”
All was silence! It was a terrible silence, for we were waiting for some word to come from this woman clinging to the rail as though she were on the brink of a precipice. But that word did not come.
Rouletabille continued pitilessly:
“And now I need say no more about the first ‘fiction’ but come to the second. For that matter I shall have but very few words to add. When I returned to Havre J felt confident that it was you who had contrived the affair at Passy as well as that at St. Adresse. Nothing remained for me but to obtain proofs, and I determined to obtain them by devoting the necessary time to that end, and by deceiving you as you deceived everybody else. Your action in placing in the house at Passy the slave bangle which you found at St. Adresse was a great triumph for me. What a complete confession it was! Finally I had in my posse
ssion the letter from Roland Boulenger summoning Theodora Luigi to come to him, the letter which according to handwriting experts was not written by him. It could only have been written by you.”
“Lies!... Inventions!... Madness!” cried Madame Boulenger hoarsely, no longer able to look at Rouletabille.
“I have here proof that you used often to imitate your husband’s handwriting. Better still, I have gummed and pieced together your various attempts to write that letter.... Monsieur le Président, will you please open this envelope. I assure you that Madame Boulenger will not be able to deny it.”
Rouletabille fixed his eyes on Madame Boulenger as though he wished to hypnotize her while the usher passed the envelope to the Judge.
“I have this much to say, Monsieur le Président,” faltered Madame Boulenger. “It is true that I have often tried to imitate my husband’s writing. He himself asked me to do so in order that I might reply to his numerous correspondents and sign his name for him.”
“That’s all I wanted to know,” exclaimed Rouletabille. “And now, Monsieur le Président, you may tear up the envelope for there is nothing in it!”
There was a moment of stupor, and then, despite the gravity of the occasion, an outburst of laughter.
“And now I will give you very briefly absolute proof of Madame Boulenger’s presence in the house at Passy at the time the murders were perpetrated, and proof of her guilt. When she finished her fell work, she descended to the kitchen for a drink for she was thirsty. She drank a glass of cold water which she poured from the tap into a glass taken from the dresser near at hand. Unfortunately for her, she made the mistake of omitting to replace the glass in its proper position among the others. I have had the glass examined by experts in the Bertillon system of finger-prints. In fact certain friends of mine were good enough to assist me with their ‘experiments,’ and they will give evidence as to the result of their investigations. They discovered marks on the glass which cannot be mistaken, for they are Madame Boulenger’s finger-prints.”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 100