“Avignon, two-fifty a m. — From Avignon by car. Jean drove in mad fashion; he will break our necks.... I insisted that he should give place to me at the wheel.
“Chateau de Lavardens, four a m. — Roused the gardener. Everything quiet. Monsieur de Lavardens and his daughter retired to rest at an early hour. Four-ten a m. — I am leaving Jean at Lavardens and starting off in the car along Les Saintes Maries road. Four-thirty-five — A shot in the road. A back tyre burst. A man sprang up before me with a carbine in his hand. I recognized Olajai. He was breathless and stared at me with wild eyes: ‘Don’t show yourself in Camargue! Don’t leave Lavardens!’ he shouted, and plunged into a clump of tamarisks. While changing the wheel I thought over Olajai’s warning. It was sound advice, I returned to Lavardens.
“Six o’clock. — A few minutes after reaching the château I saw a crowd of excited peasants bringing in the dead body of Monsieur de Lavardens which they had found at the other end of the park near the boundary-gate leading to de Lauriac’s land. Monsieur de Lavardens had received a terrible blow on the temple. A cursory examination of the body convinced me that the murderer would never be brought to justice.
“Seven o’clock. — Hubert de Lauriac has been arrested. Meanwhile it was discovered that Mademoiselle de Lavardens was spirited away during the night. Jean has completely lost his head. Dear little Odette!
I will save you....”
CHAPTER IV
THE MIDI AND CAMARGUE STIRRED
THE FEW LINES which Rouletabille hurriedly scrawled in his diary merely set forth in blunt language tragic incidents which the police on the one hand, and the newspapers on the other, would soon endeavour to reconstruct down to the smallest detail. The reason why on this particular occasion Rouletabille had been sparing in his comments was doubtless because he would have had too much to say.
Was it that he already foresaw that this business, which at first sight seemed merely a sinister addition to the news columns, would soon assume the proportions of an event of European import? It is certain that yielding to an unerring instinct assisted by his habit of logical reasoning — this logical reasoning which in his own figurative language he called “the right end of his judgment he straightway received the intuition that underlying the murder of de Lavardens another tremendous drama was being enacted of which the former might well prove to be the key.
Let us, therefore, follow his movements step by step, after he was driven in such strange fashion from the Camargue road by the phantom-like apparition of Olajaï. Rouletabille drove back to Lavardens. It was not at the exact moment of his return that the discovery of the murder was made, but, as he noted in his diary, some few minutes later.
Jean was waiting for him on the front steps of the Viei-Castou-Nou — the old-new château — as it was called in the district when mention was made of the spacious country house, in the Provençal style of architecture, which the de Lavardens had built at the beginning of the last century.
The house stood on the Arles road, to the north of La Camargue, a country of cool and shady places which after leaving the marshy plains, luminous as a flashing mirror, grows surprisingly like a Normandy landscape with its grassy paths, its fields of wheat, and its tall, leafy trees with their moss-covered trunks. Here was dispensed an open-handed hospitality. Here the traveller, or the ordinary herdsman about to round up his flocks and herds, was invariably greeted with a word of welcome and a cup of good wine as “lively as a lark.”
Rouletabille at once observed that Jean’s expression was entirely reassuring. For himself, smarting under the extraordinary incident on the road, he was far from feeling as easy in his mind as his friend. He allowed himself to be taken to a small reception room where Alari, an aged man-servant who had been in the service of the de Lavardens family for thirty years, had laid a table with early morning breakfast.
“We are fools,” exclaimed Jean. “Everything is quiet in the house. I have questioned Alari. De Lauriac has behaved in the most extraordinary way, and I understand that Odette was greatly upset.”
“All the same,” said Alari, after pouring out the coffee, “If I were in your place, Monsieur Jean, I should keep my eyes open. There are days when that fellow is like a highwayman.”
The old servant left the room repeating with a tremulous motion of his head, “like a highwayman.”
“Another thing,” Jean went on when Alari was out of the room, “I know now why Callista came to Les Saintes Maries.”
“Speak out, old man, let’s have it,” returned Rouletabille, whose mind was still occupied with Olajai.
“Why, it’s very simple. You know that under her frivolous Parisian ways Callista still remained a gipsy with all the prejudices and superstitions of her race.”
“Too much of a gipsy; much too much, my dear Jean, for our peace of mind.”
“You don’t follow me.”
“You mean that you don’t follow me which is not quite the same thing.”
“But listen to me, if you don’t mind. You like to hear yourself speak, but you never listen to anyone else.”
“That’s your imagination, Jean. To listen to you I have no need to hear you speak.”
“Oh, you talk like a Southerner. Besides, you are chaffing. Our affairs are improving.”
“No, they are not improving. But you were saying that Callista...”
“Is superstitious,” returned Jean, somewhat out of countenance. “You know her devotion to St. Sarah...”
“Well, of course. St. Sarah is the patron saint of these people.”
“Yes, but you don’t know how far that goes with Callista. She had an ikon placed at the head of her bed, and more than once I found her praying before this awful little daub.”
“What then?”
“Then, you know, on the twenty-fourth of May every year gipsies make a pilgrimage, in honour of St. Sarah of Les Saintes Maries, to the crypt of the church, which was built on the very spot where, according to tradition, Mary of Bethany, Mary the Mother of James, and Mary Magdalene landed with Lazarus, and Sarah their servant.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m getting on your nerves.”
“No, you are merely wasting my time with your history lesson. I know all about that as well as you do. What is it that you really want to say?”
“This: Alari tells me that never before at such a celebration has Camargue been so overrun with gipsies of all kinds. They are here from every part — North, South, Italy, Spain, and even farther afield. Rumour in the district states that the twenty-fourth of May this year fits in with a prophesy from which the whole race expects great things. That being granted, it follows that to an enthusiast for St. Sarah like Callista...”
But Rouletabille was no longer listening. He had pushed his cup aside, and wrapped in thought walked over to the window filling his pipe.
It was one of those brilliant Provençal mornings when the country seems tinged with gold. A soft breeze wafted the scent of lavender and myrtle through the open window, but though Rouletabille was not less susceptible than another to the pure joy of nature, his eyes were not at that moment fixed on the country, nor was he in the mood to savour its fragrance. Apparently he was absorbed in “listening to himself,” to use the words of Jean who, growing more and more at ease, went on with his breakfast while pursuing his train of thought:
“Alari tells me that such a sight has not been witnessed since the Queen of the Sabbath was crowned...”
Without fuming round Rouletabille said in the faraway voice that he assumed at times as though he were speaking from another room, a room in which he alone was entitled to enter, and to which he seemed to have retired taking with him his imprisoned thoughts:
“A few weeks ago I wrote an article about the trial of certain Romanys. These were a body of ‘your money or your life’ thieves. I dealt in this article with the curious destiny of this race, and ended by stating that the People of the Road had not in fact lost faith in their future.”<
br />
“Where did the article appear? How is it that I didn’t see it?”
“It appeared in the Revue de la Langue d’Oc and was written in the Provençal dialect. I came to the conclusion that the subject was an opportune one,” Rouletabille replied in his far-away voice, the voice that seemed to come from another room.
Suddenly he turned round and went back to Jean.
“I also said in that article that St. Sarah had given her people the promise in so many words it seems — don’t smile — that in the near future their one-time prosperity should return to them. I confess, indeed, that I got the details for this article from Olajai.”
“Well, old man, it was to perform her devotions at the shrine of St. Sarah that Callista came to Camargue. So we made a mistake to lose our heads over it.”
“My servant also came to Camargue to perform his devotions, my dear Jean, but you can perceive that I don’t feel any the more reassured on that account. By the way, I came up; against him.”
“Olaja’i?”
“Yes, Olajai. He burst one of the tyres of my car with a carbine shot. He wanted the opportunity to advise me to return here immediately and not to leave Lavardens.”
“What does that mean?” exclaimed Jean, rising from the table.
Rouletabille shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, what could it mean unless it meant that danger hangs over Lavardens?
“Danger of what? Lavardens has nothing to do with gipsies.”
“No, but possibly Callista has something to do with Lavardens, and Olajai knows it.”
“So Callista has a secret understanding with Olajai?”
“I don’t think Olajai is inspired by any ill will towards me; and yet in certain respects his behaviour is unintelligible and gives me cause for anxiety. I saved his life in the Balkans.... But if there is no understanding between them there may be something worse. There’s a connection between them which, however I may look upon it, alarms me.”
“And you, you frighten me,” exclaimed Jean. “Let’s get out of the place. Let’s go quickly and leave these gipsies and Callista and Olajai and that ruffian de Lauriac far behind.”
“Well go then, and the sooner the better,” said Rouletabille.
“What about you?”
“I shall stay.” —
CHAPTER V
LOU CABANOU
JEAN STARED AT Rouletabille in surprise.
“Might I ask what will keep you here when I am away?”
Rouletabille was obviously in no hurry to answer for he at once asked Alari who had come into the room:
“What is happening at Les Saintes Maries?”
“God knows, m’sieur. But it’s not for nothing that people call their mass the devil’s mass.”
“Gipsies are good catholics, you know.”
“Quèsaco. What then? That does not do away with the fact that they say mass in the crypt the wrong way.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, their priest faces instead of turning his back to them, and, besides, the altar is turned round. But that’s a trifle, I assure you. It’s what takes place afterwards. Ah, if wouldn’t do for an ordinary man to fall into their hands at such a time.”
“Would they eat him?”
“No, but they don’t look upon it as a proper festival in that crypt unless blood is shed.”
“Who told you so?”
“Everyone in Camargue knows it.”
Jean shrugged his shoulders.
“Why, monsieur,” went on Alari, “I came up against one of those infernal people yesterday and asked: ‘Where are you going with that big knife?’ He looked at me out of the corner of his eyes and answered: ‘To cut their heads off. I’m the executioner.’”
“Meanwhile what was he cutting?”
“Osiers for making baskets.”
“You see, my good man, you are a bit simple-minded.”
Just then the sound of voices was heard in the entrance hall, and Alari went out to see what was happening. He returned with a look of bewilderment, holding in his hand a light blue silk wrap which he showed to them.
“Old Tavan found mademoiselle’s wrap in Monsieur de Lauriac’s garden,” he said.
Jean became deadly pale. Rouletabille rushed out of the room. In the hall he ran into Estève, the lady’s maid. She was a native of Arles, and had not long been in service at the Viei-Castou-Nou, and he asked her in a harsh voice if Mademoiselle Odette was in her room.
“I should think she was in her room! I’ve come down to fetch her breakfast,” answered the girl, somewhat taken aback by Rouletabille’s manner.
“Did Mademoiselle Odette go to Monsieur de Lauriac yesterday?” he asked.
Estève who was growing more and more offended by this brusque examination flushed, and burst out:
“How should I know whether mademoiselle went to see Monsieur de Lauriac? It’s too bad. Am I here to keep watch over mademoiselle? Let me pass. Quèsaco.”
Jean came into the hall with Alari at his heels and said to Estève:
“Take this wrap, which this man found in Monsieur de Lauriac’s garden, to your mistress.”
“In his garden!” echoed the maid obviously disconcerted.
“Yes, in his garden,” interjected old Tavan, a day labourer who occasionally worked at odd jobs for the de Lavardens, but more often still for Hubert de Lauriac.
“Were you working for Monsieur de Lauriac this morning?” inquired Rouletabille.
“Yes, I went there to start work and saw the wrap on the ground in the pathway,” he returned. “I recognized it at once. The young lady was wearing it over her shoulders yesterday. I went and knocked at Monsieur de Lauriac’s door, but no one answered me. So I brought the wrap here.”
“Now, Tavan, where was mademoiselle yesterday, when you saw her wearing that wrap? Not at Monsieur de Lauriac’s, I suppose?” questioned Alari.
“No; she was out for a walk with her father about five o’clock.”
“In that case,” interposed Rouletabille, “she must have lost the wrap during her walk. Monsieur de Lauriac must have seen and picked it up, and dropped it in his turn on his way home.”
“Unless Monsieur de Lauriac met monsieur and mademoiselle on their walk and purloined the wrap by way of a joke,” said Alari.
“A queer sort of joke,” snapped out Jean. “Still Monsieur de Lauriac will tell us all about that. Thanks, Tavan, and God bless you.”
Meantime Rouletabille had not lost a shade of the play of facial expression round him. Estève had disappeared to the kitchen. Tavan had the features of one of those shrewd old peasants who seek to hide their real cunning by affecting a look of innocence.
“I’ll go off with Tavan,” said Rouletabille. “He will point out the place where he found the wrap.”
Jean, whose mind was greatly perturbed, went after them and Alari brought up the rear.
They went along the road to the gate leading to de Lauriac’s small estate. De Lauriac’s house, which was not very imposing, stood on the edge of the de Lavardens’ park. Alari always referred to it in contemptuous words as lou cabanou, “the shanty,” though Hubert had spared no expense to impart a modern appearance to it and to furnish it in some style.
They made their way into the yard and Tavan pointed out the spot where he found the wrap. Rouletabille was by this time on all fours, and soon left the path to follow up a trail, newly marked in the soft garden soil, which led to the rear of the house.
Alari, who watched Rouletabille’s movements with a look of admiration, murmured between his teeth an old witticism:
“One of these days when it is night people will wear a tail with an eye in it which will whirl about in a thousand ways and be able to see at ten paces the veins of a flea.”
The wall which ran along de Lauriac’s yard was somewhat low at this point. Suddenly Rouletabille cleared it in a couple of leaps and dropped into a sunk road ending in a blind alley. The others made a movement to follo
w him, but he appeared again almost immediately with a thoughtful look on his face and one word on his lips:
“Car!”
“What is it?” asked Jean.
“Stand aside,” said Rouletabille to Alari and Tavan. “I want to talk to Monsieur de Santierne.”
“Well?” inquired Jean when the others had moved away a few steps.
“Odette did come here.”
“Odette came to de Lauriac’s place?”
“Yes.”
“By herself?”
“Certainly by herself. But what disturbs me, you know, is not that she came here, but that I can’t see how she left the place.”
“That’s your fancy. Where can you see traces of Odette’s footsteps? Show them to me. I should like to see them.”
Rouletabille took him to the place where Tavan alleged that he had found the wrap. Here, in fact, the imprint of a small pointed shoe could be discerned; an imprint which was suddenly lost. This imprint turned towards de Lauriac’s house — after that nothing.
“Nothing,” echoed Rouletabille sinking his voice.
Those footprints show that she came here but did not return. And they are joined there by a man’s footprints, and this man’s footprints lead to the wall And do you know what was behind the wall? A motor-car hidden from view was in waiting. If Odette is not in her room at movement we may assume the worst.”
“The worst that we may assume,” gasped Jean who was suffering tortures, is that Odette came here alone. All else is of no consequence. No one carried her away No one tried to carry her away, otherwise she would have told us about it, don’t you think. Besides, you know her.”
“Yes, I know her,” returned Rouletabille gravely. And yet you can imagine Odette coming at night time to de Lauriac’s house? Why, you must have sworn to drive me out of my mind.”
“Calm yourself, Jean. Pull yourself together. Odette is an angel and you are a poet. Let me get on with my business of examining the marks which were made by persons and things in moving over the ground.”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 103