“The Octopus!... The Octopus again!” exclaimed Jean. “Lord, haven’t I warned you often enough against her. And she knows Callista! They must have joined forces against us in Paris.”
“The odds are in favour of it, certainly,” said Rouletabille calmly. “Callista is an adept in arousing jealousy....”
“Oh, don’t let’s speak of it,” sighed Jean. “I only ask you from now onwards to hate Madame de Meyrens as I hate Callista, and we shall both be all the better for it, I assure you.... So you followed them?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you follow Callista?” asked Jean.
“Because I know where to find her,” returned Rouletabille. “After listening to their conversation was it not more important to make certain, before anything else, whether Odette was alive or dead?”
“Did the cave tell you that?”
“That and a great many other things.”
“But, after all, if I understand you rightly, the evidence of Odette’s safety seems very inconclusive. They may have carried her off to get rid of her elsewhere.”
“Where to?” asked Rouletabille, forcing Jean to sit down, for he had risen to his feet, his pupils dilated as though he saw some terrible vision.
“Where to? Why, didn’t you say that they took her away in a caravan?”
“And I say it again. To begin with, after the abduction, they drove off in a motor-car with the object of diverting suspicion, but gipsies who come to Les Saintes Maries are not used to motor-cars, and they took her from the car to the cave, and from the cave to the caravan.”
“I quite understand, but do try to understand me too, Rouletabille. Did you not say that this caravan took the road from Arles to Les Saintes Maries on the very night when these infernal people were celebrating the festival of Saint Sarah?”
“Do you suggest a blood offering?” asked the journalist quietly.
“You heard, as I did, what old Alari said. Nobody knows what happens in that church crypt on this dreadful night.”
“Pull yourself together. As a matter of fact, I considered that everything was possible. Accordingly the first thing I did at Camargue was to make certain that there were no grounds for so horrible a supposition.”
“Do you know what happened in the crypt?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But how do you know? You told me yourself that you couldn’t appear at Les Saintes Maries without being forced to leave again.”
“That’s why I did not appear, my dear Jean. But when people think that I am far away I am sometimes close at hand, very close at hand. Let’s hope that I shall soon be near Odette,” he added with a bright smile, taking leave of Jean.
“But where are you going? I’ll come with you.”
“No, have a good sleep. You haven’t slept for a couple of nights.”
“What about you? What sleep have you had during the last three nights?”
“But, my dear fellow, I’ve slept my fill. A quarter of an hour here and half an hour there. As you know, I’m used to sleeping in this way.”
“You’re not telling the truth, Rouletabille. You haven’t slept a wink.”
“Well, that’s true. Up to now I’ve had a bad time.... But now you’ll see that I have fully recovered my spirits. The worthy Monsieur Crousillat, and Bartholasse, his apoplectic clerk, had better look out for themselves. There’ll be plenty of scope for laughter and amusement at their expense.”
“Let me come with you, Rouletabille.”
“No,” he returned. “I want you to stay at Viei-Castou-Nou, or at least not to go far away from it because...”
“Because what?”
“Because we must know where to find you.”
“Who?”
“Someone who will certainly bring you news of Odette.”
“You are a magician!”
“Perhaps.... Good-bye, Jean.”
“But, after all, Rouletabille, if you really know the guilty party you can very well give me his name.”
Rouletabille wavered a moment and then went up to de Santierne and whispered a few words in his ear.
Afterwards he made his escape, leaving Jean completely staggered.
CHAPTER XIV
PANDORA SLEEPS
WAS THERE COMPLICITY? Such was the question which Rouletabille asked himself when he was in de Lauriac’s grounds, after clearing the wall dividing the Viei-Castou-Nou from the “shanty,” for the authorities had permanently closed the partition gate. Until then he had not lost a moment, pressing forward to do the thing that seemed most urgent. But he felt from the beginning that a thorough search of the place, even if de Lauriac was innocent, might be of the greatest advantage.
And then he had good reason to proceed with caution. Monsieur Crousillat, at the instigation of Bartholasse, his clerk, who had a holy horror of journalists in general and Rouletabille in particular, objected to his setting foot in the house. Seals had been affixed to the door of the room in which so much incriminating evidence was found affecting this de Lauriac whom Rouletabille, to every one’s amazement, defended. Moreover, Monsieur Crousillat had posted two gendarmes on guard, who had strict orders to allow no one to come near and to keep the house under observation.
Rouletabille had already seen these two watch-dogs barring the way. He had not persisted. He would leave them gradually to relax their vigilance.
Accordingly he chose to enter de Lauriac’s place during the early hours, for he had observed that the gendarme on duty at that particular time gave way to fatigue and sleep. In short, finding the moment a propitious one, he walked round the house, and reached without being observed a light well, into which he crept. Five minutes later, stealing from light well to skylight and from skylight to window, he attained de Lauriac’s study. He could hear through the sealed door a resounding and regular snore. It was Pandora keeping watch!
Rouletabille set about ransacking the room with his accustomed thoroughness, convinced that he would not be disturbed. He emptied a small writing-desk of all its documents from top to bottom, and carefully examined each one. The fact that the police had been there first in no way discouraged our journalist — far from it. He was wont to say that the authorities never failed to facilitate his task by constantly neglecting those things which related to the matter in hand, and taking away all else!
Nevertheless, he found nothing that morning which had any direct or indirect bearing on the tragic incidents which had so greatly excited this part of Camargue, and he was wondering if he had not wasted his time, when, among the few books which lay on the tables and shelves, he perceived a big book whose antiquated appearance caused him some astonishment.
De Lauriac was in no sense a lover of books. His library amounted to little or nothing. A few of the latest novels, some books of travel and sports magazines, constituted his entire collection. The ancient volume, whose binding, moreover, appeared to have greatly suffered from the ravages of time, was out of place in this modern setting — this study furnished in a manner at once pretentious and ordinary, beloved of those young persons who are anxious to follow the style which happens to be in the fashion.
The only mark of originality in the room consisted in a few uncommon objects brought back from distant lands; bronze masks wearing a savage grin, which took the unsuspecting visitor by surprise, and skins of wild beasts which suggested big game hunting, but had possibly been bought at some bazaar.
But how came the book in de Lauriac’s possession? Rouletabille did not fail to examine it in the hope of finding an answer to his question, for he held in his hand a work resembling a book of antiphons and yet it was not a book of antiphons. He was opening it when a kind of dagger slipped out and fell to the floor. He looked down, picked it up, and saw that it was not so much a weapon as a paper cutter.
Thereupon he noticed that a page had been cut out quite neatly at the very place where the book opened. The page was missing. What was the object of removing that page? And, first of all, what wa
s the book? The letterpress in it was unusual, approximating to Greek, Byzantine and even Slavonic typography. He could identify certain characters. He had seen similar letters during his last journey to the Balkans, but he was unable to decipher complete words, nor could he divine their significance.
Nevertheless, the book greatly attracted him. It was obviously of very considerable value. Why had it been mutilated? And why had the binding, in which a number of little holes could be seen and felt, been disfigured in that way? At first sight Rouletabille attributed these mutilations to the action of time, but now, as he scrutinized the work more closely, he perceived that they were comparatively recent.
He pocketed the dagger and inserted a small sheet of paper in the place where the book had opened; and then closed it and examined the binding from every point of view. He soon came to the conclusion that the cover had been studded with precious stones, for it was a very valuable book. It was illuminated inside with splendid initial letters and tail-pieces in colour of a somewhat rude design, an impressive treasure such as is greatly sought after by book collectors. It indubitably contained some kind of ritual, appertaining to a religion which had yet to be determined.
Suddenly, while his attention was attracted by the shape of a hollow space in the cover which must certainly have contained and held in place the iron fastening in the middle, Rouletabille excitedly felt in the inside pocket of his jacket and drew forth the jewel which he had found in Odette’s room and thought fit to appropriate to himself. —
This jewel, or rather the centre ornament of the pendant, fitted exactly into the marks left by the iron clasp of the book. The fatal sign of the cross and crescent, the gipsies’ sacred device, was formerly the clasp of the book!
“Whew!” whistled Rouletabille. “It is quite possible that my little visit to dear Monsieur de Lauriac’s study will not be absolutely useless.”
Five minutes later he had left Lou Cabanou without disturbing Pandora’s slumbers.
The chief librarian of the Municipal Library at Arles had barely reached his room, and had not yet had time to take his spectacles from their case when he saw coming towards him, like a whirlwind, a breathless young map, carrying under his arm a weighty portfolio, from which, without speaking a word, he drew one of the oldest specimens of the bookman’s art which had ever been placed under this worthy official’s eyes.
“Here, monsieur, is a little thing which I wish to submit for your expert opinion. Everyone is aware that you possess an unequalled knowledge of whatever pertains to Oriental languages.
“I read them all and speak some of them,” interrupted the librarian modestly.
“Well, I have come to the right man. You shall tell me what you think of my ‘little diary.’”
The librarian did not even condescend to smile at Rouletabille’s jest. He was already enraptured. His wide-open eyes, gleaming behind his spectacles, his trembling fingers as they travelled over the precious book, bore witness to his enthusiasm, which, though it was restrained, was none the less very great.
“It’s a beauty, what?” said Rouletabille.
The librarian did not answer. Though Rouletabille might speak the librarian had no ears for him. His entire being was concentrated on seeing and touching the treasure.
“Well, what do you say?” exclaimed the journalist.
The librarian was reading it. He began at the first page, and was about to turn over the second, seemingly disinclined to skip a line. Rouletabille sat down, prepared, whatever happened, to show patience and good temper. He knew that learned men have their little eccentricities, and, in particular, do not like to be hurried.
He would wait since he must wait. All the more so, as some scholars under an appearance of childish simplicity, conceal a diabolical craft and enjoy to the full, without appearing to do so, a laugh at other people’s expense.
However, the librarian, after reading the second page, started on the third. Therefore Rouletabille rose to his feet and in his most imperturbable manner went up to him, drew his “turnip” from his waistcoat pocket, and quietly placed it on the third page under the librarian’s nose.
The librarian contemplated the dial for a moment as though it were some strange beast of an entirely unknown species, then raised his head and stared questioningly at the journalist with a look of blank and anxious surprise. His gaze seemed to say: “What does this fellow want with me? or again, “Who allowed this gentleman to come into my room without knocking?”
Rouletabille gave the learned man one of his most agreeable smiles.
“I should like to tell you, monsieur, that this book contains four hundred pages, and I am showing you my watch to remind you that it is half-past nine in the morning. At what time do you expect to finish reading it? I have a few calls to make in the town. When shall I come back?”
“In a week, monsieur. Come back here in a week’s time. This book is a wonder. I want to read and re-read it. If I were rich enough to buy it, you would not see it again.”
“And if it belonged to me, I would make you a present of it.”
“That’s very good of you to say so. What do you want from me?”
“It’s a Romany book, is it not?”
“I see that you know what you’re talking about, young man. I dare say you ‘do a little book-collecting.’”
“No, monsieur,” returned Rouletabille, who would not have admitted to a public official for anything in the world his position as a journalist, knowing that as a rule such persons loathe the very name of journalist. “ No, monsieur, but I am a bit of a traveller, and I said to my friend from whom I borrowed it: ‘I may be mistaken, but in my opinion this book is a Romany book.’”
“What did your friend say?”
“He told me to come and see you.”
“He was quite right.... Yes, this book is very old, and is written in the traditional gipsy language.... But see what there is inside. I find these words on the cover. I will translate them,” said the librarian, adjusting his glasses. “This is the Book of Ancestors:
Whoso shall reverence this Book, Preserve it if it be in peril, Restore it if it be lost.
Shall be given a befitting recompense and underneath:
‘ But whoso shall steal this Book.
Or mutilate it, Shall be chastened and meet the pain of death.’”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Rouletabille, “they come it a bit strong those ancestors. Fortunately they died before the man stole it.”
“Did your friend steal the book?” asked the librarian, gazing at Rouletabille over the rim of his glasses.
“Well, now, he omitted to tell me,” returned the journalist, laughing heartily, “but between ourselves he is quite capable of doing so.”
“A strange sort of friend,” observed the worthy functionary, compressing his lips.
“He is, you understand, a devoted lover of rare books, and book-collecting covers a multitude of sins.”
“I doubt if there is in France or Europe, I might even say in the whole world, a more devoted lover of rare books than myself, and yet I have never robbed anyone,” protested the librarian, turning purple at Rouletabille’s enunciation of a sentiment destructive alike of public and private morals.
“I quite believe you, monsieur. You have the look of an honest man. And as to this book, I intend to discover the truth. My friend shall tell me where and when he got it and if he appropriated it honestly! If he cannot reply to my questions straightforwardly, I shall threaten to denounce him to the Public Prosecutor, unless...”
“Unless?”
“Unless he makes a present of it to the Arles Library.”
The librarian’s expression gradually relaxed into a smile. He held out his huge paw:
“You are a man of wit.”
“And so are you,” returned the journalist, warmly shaking him by the hand. “But I am not a scholar. What else does the book contain?”
“It contains the sacred text of the rites which govern the consecr
ation of towns, churches, altars, encampments.”
While speaking he turned over the pages:
“Here is a chapter which deals with the art of reading omens and divining the future. Gipsies have always been addicted to those sort of practices. The book dates from a period when this nomadic people finally settled down for some centuries in the Near East. From what I can gather, at a glance, I should not be surprised if we had in our possession the orthodox ritual of the gipsies who settled in Europe after their flight from Asia, and eventually established the Patriarchate of Transylvania.”
“What you tell me is most interesting.”
“Oh, good heavens!” cried the librarian suddenly, as if he had received a blow in the-chest.
“What’s the matter?”
“Well, a stone is lacking in the edifice. I mean a page is missing from the book. What a vandal, what a ruffian the man must be who tore out this page. It is the more to be deplored as the absence of this page prevents me from reading the continuation of a most curious prophecy which begins on the preceding page.”
“A prophecy!” exclaimed Rouletabille, assuming a more serious air, as though an idea had suddenly occurred to his ever-active brain. “Will you translate the actual wording of the prophecy?”
“Here it is literally translated: ‘In due time a queen shall be born to the race bearing on the left shoulder the mark of the crown.... This child shall be born of a gipsy mother and an alien father.... And the race during her reign shall behold once more its ancient prosperity.’”
While the librarian was reading Rouletabille’s face gleamed with a strange light. As soon as the last words of the prophecy were uttered, he gave way to his excitement:
“Ah, now I understand,” he cried, wildly waving his cap.
“Are you going mad?” asked the librarian. “I should think you did understand, seeing that I’ve translated the words for you.”
“Oh, monsieur, it was not a question of understanding those words. I understand now what I didn’t understand before!”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 109