Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  CHAPTER II

  CALLISTA

  “I REALLY DO not know how to tell Callista about my marriage to Odette.” Rouletabille repeated to himself his friend Jean’s words while Jean, seated at the piano in the boudoir, played Beethoven, and Callista whose legs were bare under flying black draperies bedecked with leaves of gold, was dancing. Rouletabille was not the only one to fix his eyes on Callista as she danced. The bear’s cub and the parrot also watched her. It was a strange scene, shrouded in partial darkness. Jean himself was in the shadow. He was heard but not seen. The jingling of Callista’s bangles could likewise be heard when her movements became accentuated. The three spectators, Rouletabille, the bear’s cub and the parrot, were as silent as their images reflected on the wall like pictures thrown upon a screen by a magic lantern. The illumination came from the red gleam of a small lamp, with a tissue-paper shade, which stood on a silver tray upon which playing cards had been scattered in a rage while the torn queen of hearts lay among them... the fair lady was in pieces!

  Of course Callista was dark, but nothing could be seen of her save her dazzling legs, which flashed on the carpet like running fire. Suddenly the movement of her limbs under her frills was stilled, she sank to the floor, and from her waving hair, which flew loose over her shoulders, a lovely face wearing an expression of fierce sorrow could be seen.

  “She has never danced so tragically,” thought Rouletabille. “One might almost think that she foresees the calamity. We have a difficult time ahead of us.”

  But by a miracle in the mobility of its expression, the image of despair, which was revealed in the lamplight, vanished almost instantly and gave place to the most sprightly and delightful smile, and then Callista was on her feet again becoming by turns imperious and submissive, tender and modest, gentle and mocking. At last she burst out laughing. Her dance had been first the dance of a devil, then of one of the graces or muses, and then of an angel or a sprite.

  Rouletabille’s mind harked back to the day when he first saw her dance. That was two years before. It was in Carmargue, near Les Saintes Maries where he and his friend Jean had gone to shoot wild-fowl.

  Callista came out dancing from a gipsy’s caravan, which was stranded between two clumps of evergreens, and they were arrested by the delight of this biblical scene in the open air. Silently squatting in a circle round the dancer, the enraptured but squalid tribesmen watched the beautiful girl and her divine movements, while a handsome dark man, who was sitting by the embers of a fire, played on his guitar an age-old melody.

  Their presence was observed and the dance came to a stop, and they were driven away by the gipsies’ unspoken hostility. And then the following day, as they were lunching with others — a merry crew who knew how to enjoy life it must be said — in a small rustic inn in the neighbourhood, within a stone’s throw of a river, they beheld in the midst of their modern diversions — someone playing a shimmy on the piano — the apparition of a faun giving chase to a naiad.

  They recognized in the half-nude young girl the gipsy whom they had seen the day before, and the faun was the man with the guitar. He was in a terrible passion, and had snatched up the poor child who struggled as she shrieked and bit him. And he was about to carry her off when Jean and Rouletabille and their friends made a rush at him. The gipsy was forced to yield to superior numbers. He slowly made off, turning his head from time to time towards the girl who continued to load him with her imprecations.

  Panting for breath she placed herself under Jean’s protection:

  “My name is Callista. That man is Andrea. He is a Spanish gipsy but does not belong to my tribe. My father is dead, and he wants to take me away with him. He is nothing to me.”

  An hour later, to avoid fresh complications, Jean drove off in his car with Callista amid the acclamations of his friends. And that was how Callista and Jean became lovers and why Callista still loved him.

  She adapted herself to her new life with the zeal of a convert to whom the joys of a new religion of unsuspected charm is revealed. Though she remained at heart a gipsy, she quickly transformed herself into an odd sort of Parisienne, dressing elegantly and in ultrafashionable style. It really seemed as if she were bent on forgetting her antecedents. For Jean alone, and for Rouletabille who was reckoned as of no account, she sometimes danced her Spanish gipsy dances, and, as we have seen, Jean set them to Beethoven’s music....

  Callista was now laughing, but her laughter sent a shudder through Rouletabille. The parrot and the bear cub also began to laugh.

  “This house appals me,” said Rouletabille to himself as he strove to shake off the sickly languor that stole over him. “It’s those Armenian scents. Do what she will, the place will always reek of an Eastern bazaar.”

  Jean closed the piano and endeavoured to explain to Callista that it was essential for him to leave her early that evening:

  “Rouletabille will keep you company.”

  She did not answer. She offered him her forehead as cold as marble, and he made his escape stammering his excuses. Rouletabille would have given a great deal to go with him.

  Callista sat down on the divan. She remained motionless. She held herself as erect as an Egyptian queen. A huge slave bangle gleamed on her bare arm. Rouletabille had to make up his mind to act. He coughed. He felt absurd, hateful; and he cursed Jean for putting so heavy a burden upon him.

  It was she, however, who spoke first:

  “He wants to leave me does he not?”

  Rouletabille coughed again. He thought that his cough was more eloquent than speech. If Callista who was not lacking in intelligence would but make the smallest effort she would understand. And, true enough, she did understand and lost no time in proving it to him. She came over and stood before him, raised her bare arm to a level with his face, and pointed to the gold bangle which bore upon it a secret design made up of the conjunction and crossing of two religious symbols — the cross and the cresent — shaped like a dagger.

  “Rouletabille, repeat what I say to Jean. Girls of my race who wear a bangle on the arm — a bangle which bears this sign — are true daughters of Romany. They cherish constancy in love and never forget a wrong. And now go quickly.... Go, I tell you. Go to your friend!”

  There were three to drive him out, for the bear’s cub and the parrot united their forces with Callista’s and the parrot was not the least formidable of the three.

  CHAPTER III

  OLAJAÏ

  AFTER TURNING OVER the pages of a railway guide which lay on his desk, Rouletabille walked up to one of the large road maps of Europe which hung on the wall, between the bookcases, and spread their variegated puzzles before him.

  The study was now in its accustomed order. The books were in their places. A new pane of glass had been put in the balcony window. Every trace of the burglary of the night before had disappeared, and the master of the flat was never so self-possessed.

  With a deliberate movement he ran his finger, which pointed to “Avignon,” along the line of a road on the map and then turned to the telephone:

  “Has Monsieur Jean de Santierne returned yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve been waiting an hour for him. I want to see him very particularly. If he doesn’t come back within twenty minutes from now I will telephone you my final instructions.” He hung up the receiver without giving the least sign of trepidation.

  He wore the check suit and cap by which he was so well known; and a portmanteau carefully covered with grey canvas proclaimed that he was about to start on a journey. He took a revolver from a drawer, placed it in his pocket, sat down, and closed his eyes.

  For those who know their Rouletabille — his usual animation, his natural high spirits, which often concealed the gravest anxieties, his constant longing to be on the move, to be up and doing — his aspect at that moment spoke volumes.

  Rouletabille never worked so hard as when to all seeming he was doing nothing Nature is never more still than when she is preparing to
launch her thunderbolts. What new adventure was Rouletabille meditating? Obviously he foresaw some considerable task which would need all his reserves of self-possession. What momentous events was he dimly glimpsing’ behind the veil of his closed eyelids?

  Suddenly he opened his eyes. He sprang from his chair. He recognized Jean’s tread. The latter darted forward uttering cries of delight:

  “To-night I am burying my life as a bachelor. I invite you to be present. You know that I settled everything wonderfully well with Callista. Upon my word, I don’t know what’s the matter with you, you take things so seriously. It’s Madame de Meyrens who makes you see the dark side. Since you have associated with that woman you have completely changed.... But to return to Callista, old man. She behaved first-rate. I, too, was first-rate: ‘You know how much I loved you. I shall never forget you. But life is life.

  . I’ve got to marry and settle down.’ In short a little coaxing talk and a decent solatium.”

  “Did she accept your money?”

  “I left it on the mantelpiece. I hope it will be some consolation to her.”

  “Perhaps the money is still on the mantelpiece.”

  “Well, old man, I shan’t go back to have a look. I might meet her again, and I don’t want to think of anyone but Odette — Mademoiselle Odette de Lavardens who will soon be Madame Jean de Santierne.”

  “You run no risk of meeting Callista at her flat,” returned Rouletabille frigidly. “She is not there now,”

  “Where is she?”

  “At Lavardens.”

  Jean gave a start.

  ‘What’s that!”

  “If she’s not at Lavardens she’s no great distance from it. She started for Les Saintes Maries.”

  “Callista at Les Saintes Maries! Are you sure of that?”

  “I rang up her maid and she told me so.”

  “When was that?”

  “About twenty minutes ago.”

  “And you tell me that with a calmness — a calmness that terrifies me.”

  Jean now observed the portmanteau and the check suit.

  “Are you going away? Do you intend to leave me at a moment like this?”

  “Really I must. I’m going to leave you to bury your life as a bachelor.”

  “Oh, stow that. Will you tell me where you are going?” —

  “I have no secrets from you. I’m off to Lavardens.”

  “Rouletabille!”

  Jean flung himself into his friend’s arms and embraced him, but Rouletabille quickly released himself.

  “Don’t let’s give way to emotion. Do what we will, we shall be twenty-four hours behind her. May we arrive in time!”

  “Let’s hope so,” muttered Jean. “We must strain every nerve to avoid a scene.”

  “Scene!” echoed Rouletabille with a disquieting smile.” Ah, my dear fellow, you should have heard her throw in my face those words: ‘Go, repeat what I say to Jean. Girls of my race who wear a bangle which bears this mark...’”

  “Yes, you are right. We have everything to fear. I’m going crazy.”

  “This is not the moment, if you want to save Odette.”

  “Save Odette? Is it as bad as that?”

  “First of all we must not miss the two-ten train. We shall be at Avignon to-night at two-fifty-one. Here we shall have to take a car, and we shall reach Lavardens as light begins to dawn. And now go and pack your bag. Meet me at the station. I have still an hour to spare. I can manage in that time to call at police headquarters.”

  “Why are you going to police headquarters? About that burglary business of the other night?”

  “Perhaps. By the way, I am without a servant now.”

  “Have you sacked him? Quite right. His face always filled me with distrust.”

  I didn’t sack him. When I got home last night I found the keys of the flat with the concierge and a letter lay on my table. Read it.”

  “Well, he writes very fair French your man of the wilds:

  “MONSIEUR, — I offer you my apologies for leaving your service so abruptly. It may be that I shall never see you again, but I shall always remember the many kindnesses that I have received at your hands. — OLAJAÏ.’

  “Here’s another of those funny names.”

  “Yes, he signs himself Olajaï,” returned Rouletabille in a strained voice. “And do you know what that word means in the language of his country? It means a curse!”

  “It’s weird,” said de Santierne making a movement towards the staircase.

  Rouletabille stopped him by a gesture.

  “Yes,” he returned,” it is weird, especially as Olajaï also took the train last night to...”

  “Where to?”

  “Les Saintes Maries.”

  De Santierne gazed at Rouletabille with eyes wide with wonder.

  “But what does it all mean?” he stammered. “It can’t be simply a coincidence. What is at the back of it all?”

  “I don’t know what’s at the back of it all,” returned Rouletabille still speaking with imperturbable calm, “but at least it shows us, my dear Jean, that we are all being driven there by some strange and inevitable necessity, and are struggling in a vortex of mystery in which your affairs and mine are inexplicably involved. Olajaï!... This Olajaï is a gipsy from the Balkans, and I don’t believe that he went off to Les Saintes Maries merely to offer a prayer at the shrine of Saint Sarah.”

  The young men parted on these gloomy words.

  Three-quarters of an hour later Rouletabille saw Jean come along the platform of the Gare de Lyon looking paler and more anxious than when he had left him. He held a letter in his hand.

  “Look, old man. Read it. The plot is thickening.”

  The letter was from Odette:

  “Come as quickly as you can, Come at once. I am afraid on your account. I am afraid for myself. Can it be that you do not love me but another? And then Hubert de Lauriac frightens me. And father also is anxious. Oh, do come at once. I cannot say more.”

  “The villain,” growled Jean who could scarcely contain himself. “There is no room for doubt. He has told her about Callista.”

  Rouletabille drew his friend into a carriage and shut the door. They were alone.

  “You must tell me everything you know about Hubert de Lauriac,” he said.

  “You saw him one afternoon in his own surroundings and you know as much about him as I do. You saw a pretty rough customer,” Jean made answer, frowning, a savage look on his face.

  “That’s too general a way of putting it,” objected Rouletabille.

  “It’s the man himself,” returned Jean.

  “Oh forgive me, but I thought that his character was much more complex than you have made it out to be.”

  “When it is a question of the means by which he attains his object perhaps, but I assure you that when you have seen this big fellow on horseback among his drovers, brandishing his fork behind his terrified cattle, you carry away not only an impression of him physically, but you have sounded the depths of his psychology.... And then he, too, perhaps is an artist ‘in his own line.’”

  De Santierne gave expression to a mournful laugh. Rouletabille could not be mistaken. He had before him a jealous man — jealous to the point of tears. And it was as much, indeed, as Jean could do to restrain his tears under cover of his laugh for he was a tenderhearted man was Jean — quite unlike Hubert — and under his apparent dandyism lay a fastidious spirit sensitive to an almost morbid degree. Rich, having qualified in Paris for the Diplomatic Corps from sheer boredom, and yielding to the taste of the day, indulged in every form of sport, and, entered upon a diplomatic career because, as a man of birth and education and fashion, a de Santierne owed it to himself to become at least an attaché to an embassy, Jean’s real individuality stood revealed when he touched upon questions of art, and particularly music to which he had given himself up as to some delicious drug.

  It was the art of Mozart and Beethoven which had brought about the engagement
between Jean and Odette de Lavardens, but de Santierne was fully aware that before he met this exquisite flower of Camargue, Odette, as a child, had been subject to other influences which though they were more rustic were none the less formidable. It was Hubert de Lauriac who had taught Odette to ride. And what a splendid horsewoman he had made of her!

  “You must understand,” explained Jean, “that in those days old Lavardens also was attracted by Hubert de Lauriac. But when this country gentleman — I mean de Lauriac — whose only means consisted of his house and his herds of cattle, asked him if he might look forward to receiving the hand of Odette — that was four years before-Lavardens answered: ‘Make money first and we will talk about it again when Odette is old enough.’ Well, Odette is now old enough, and Hubert de Lauriac has acquired wealth, but Odette and I love each other. I hoped to challenge him to a duel, but it seems that persons don’t fight duels nowadays. The coward has preferred to tell Odette about my affair with Callista. It’s infamous.”

  “The dear little girl! What with de Lauriac and Callista I pity her,” exclaimed Rouletabille.

  “Odette is very fond of you,” returned Jean pressing Rouletabille’s hand.

  “And I have a sincere affection for her because she is to be your wife.”

  A short pause ensued. Then Jean continued:

  “Look here, when we get there leave de Lauriac to me while you see Callista.”

  “It will be better if I take everything on myself,” objected the journalist. And as Jean made a gesture of dissent: “Now please do exactly what I tell you. I assure you that we haven’t a moment to lose, and if we make the least false step we are done for.”

  “For all that they won’t kill her.”

  “No, but I am afraid that events will move quickly.” Events did indeed move so quickly that we cannot do better, in order to show their rapid sequence, than set down in all their brevity a few extracts from Rouletabille’s diary which were written during that tragic night.

  EXTRACTS FROM ROULETABILLE’S DIARY

  “Lyon, eleven-forty p m. — Jean raised the question of whether it would not be better to alight here and cover the rest of the way by motor-car... gain of time problematical.... I decided to adhere to my first plan. Jean is growing restless with impatience and worries me.