“Well, she went to Rouletabille’s flat.”
“Rouletabille’s flat! If Madame de Meyrens told you that she lied. What an abominable woman!” cried Jean, sitting down. De Lauriac’s story began to dull his brain and beads of perspiration trickled down his forehead.
“I should have taken good care not to believe Madame de Meyrens’ word,” returned de Lauriac, with a cruel smile, “but she showed me two letters from Mademoiselle de Lavardens — one telling Rouletabille of her coming and begging him to say nothing to you about it, and the other letting him know of her father’s anger on her return. This last epistle expressed the hope that their happy hours together might return.”
Jean knew Odette, her young girl’s pride and honesty. What he now heard was so astounding, so utterly impossible, that he refused with all his might to give credence to the disgraceful story. The very extravagance of the accusation saved him, for the time being, from an act of frenzy. It was past belief. Madame de Meyrens had gone too far. That Monsieur de Lauriac, who did not know Odette as he did, should allow himself to be deceived was quite possible. But he was not deceived. In choosing between Madame de Meyrens and Odette there was no room for hesitation. He straightway recovered his composure.
“Those letters were fakes. That is my one answer.
Ah, here comes Rouletabille. Don’t let us speak again of this awful story. I shall not insult my friend by repeating it to him. And as you say that you, too, love Mademoiselle de Lavardens, forget these scandalous assertions. You must keep silent for her sake, for the sake of her honour, for ours, and for your own, monsieur, if you have any left.”
“Monsieur!”
“Monsieur!”
They stood erect face to face, measuring each other with a look as if about to come to blows. Then Rouletabille rode up, and quickly dismounting, flung himself between them. In spite of de Lauriac’s disguise he at once recognized him.
“Gentlemen, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” returned Jean, making a mighty effort to recover his self-possession.
True, he needed to keep calm with Rouletabille before his eyes — most of all with Rouletabille before his eyes — for, notwithstanding his chivalrous and generous attitude, de Lauriac had inflicted a wound upon his heart which was far from being healed.
“It strikes me that I arrived just in time,” growled Rouletabille. “You must know that it is forbidden to quarrel in the face of the enemy.”
“Monsieur de Santierne took offence at my disguising myself as a gipsy so as to enter the camp, speak to Mademoiselle de Lavardens, and thus facilitate her escape,” explained de Lauriac coldly. “I speak Romany fluently. I am confident of success.”
“Yes, but I have no confidence in you,” retorted de Santierne.
“That’s the second time you have told me so.”
“Hold your tongue, Jean, if you don’t mind,” cried Rouletabille. “Odette’s life is at stake. You have acknowledged me as your leader. I am the one to give orders and make decisions — by your own choice.... The Temesvar Pesth police refuse to interfere in the matter. We have to rely upon our own resources. In these circumstances, Monsieur de Lauriac’s scheme in my opinion is an excellent one. Had he not disguised himself as a gipsy I should have suggested such a course to him.... Go ahead, monsieur, and may you succeed, quickly. We will follow you. We shan’t let you out of our sight. Not that I mistrust you, but we must be ready to give each other immediate assistance whenever a united effort is essential to ensure the safety of her who is dear to us. You have only to call out for us and we shall hear you. Now, gentlemen, to horse.”
They mounted their horses. It was now quite dark. A cold wind from the mountains drove the ever-thickening clouds across the sky and obscured at times the effulgent moon.
“We couldn’t hope for a more favourable night. We can hide ourselves and watch by turns.”
Jean, losing patience, put spurs to his mount. Rouletabille leant over and clutched the bridle.
“Wait a bit.... Good luck, Monsieur de Lauriac.” De Lauriac went ahead of them and vanished in the darkness.
“Look here,” growled Jean, losing all patience and quivering with annoyance at being held back. “Are you here in his interests or mine?”
“I am here in Odette’s interests. Think a little less of him and yourself.”
“But he will take her away from us.”
“I sincerely hope so. I want him to take her away from us so that we may take her away from him.”
“Well, then, let’s go after him.”
“No,” said Rouletabille. “Come with me.”
And as they had reached a crossway he turned back eastward, which led them away from the road followed by de Lauriac.
“You are taking the road from Sever Turn,” exclaimed Jean. “You are taking the road which leads to the gipsies, while de Lauriac will avoid them if he gets hold of Odette, and we shall never see him again — neither him nor his victim.”
“Do as I tell you if you want to see Odette again.”
“Rouletabille, you must be mad — or rather you are too clever — too clever for me, you know. I prefer not to say any more. You want us to part company. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Well, we will go our separate ways.”
“Jean, I entreat you to listen to me,” said Rouletabille, making a last appeal.
“I have never had any confidence in de Lauriac and now I have no confidence in you.” And digging his spurs into his horse, he rode off in the direction taken by de Lauriac.
“Well, this is about the limit,” cried Rouletabille, taken aback. “What on earth has come over him? Now I am left to deal the final blow by myself. Ah, where are my friends of old, my faithful comrades in adventure — Le Candour and Vladimir? Still, my dear old Rouletabille, we must win through in spite of them. Come, don’t worry.”
And he passed out of sight at a gentle trot, gloomily filling his pipe.
CHAPTER XXXVI
“HE COMES WHOM SHE DID NOT EXPECT”
DE LAURIAC REACHED the Romany camp without further disguise, having ridden post haste. He was at once surrounded by men and women of the tribe, who plied him with a hundred questions in one breath.
He told them that he wanted to speak to their chief. Thereupon Suco, the blacksmith, led the way to Sumbalo, whom the horseman saluted in the gipsy manner. Then de Lauriac leapt from the saddle and, still holding the bridle of his horse, explained that he came from Sever Turn, delegated by the Patriarch to have speech with the queyra.
The group gathered round Him gave vent to demonstrations of satisfaction and begged him to tell them what was happening in the sacred city.
He described the state of impatient expectancy and delight which prevailed there. In the Temple all was festivity, the citizens had put out their carpets, the bells were ringing continuously. The Great Chief — the man who carried the whip across his shoulder, with which he inflicted punishment — had had a gorgeous costume made for himself; the Patriarch had despatched messengers to all the principal cities round about. As for himself, he was entrusted with a message from the chief priest to the queyra, and after he had delivered it he would continue his journey westward to carry the glad news to the People of the Road.
Sumbalo himself took him to Odette.
Odette had remained in her caravan in a state of prostration after getting rid of Zina. She had, of course, heard the commotion caused by the arrival of the messenger from Sever Turn, but had become so accustomed to these shouts and sounds that she paid no heed to them. Fresh groups of gipsies were for ever flocking to meet her, to form part of her retinue, and to ask for a sight of their queen.
Thus when she heard the door open behind her she made ready to welcome the newcomers with the same favour with which she had received Zina a little while before. She turned round with an angry gesture, and remained in blank amazement before a man who was certainly no stranger to her. The small lamp fell full on the face of the newcomer.
“Do you not recognize me, mademoiselle? I am Hubert de Lauriac.”
She leapt to her feet.
“You... you here!”
De Lauriac had explained to Sumbalo, adducing the Patriarch’s authority, that he had to speak to their young queen in private, and the chief saw no objection to leaving him alone with her for a while.
“Yes, it’s I,” he returned. “Cannot you trust me?”
She did not at first answer. Nevertheless, she knew that de Lauriac was madly in love with her, and his object in coming to her could only be to rescue her from her captors. Afterwards they would see! Greatly touched, breathing quickly, she asked after her father.
“It was he who sent me,” returned de Lauriac, taking advantage of her ignorance of her father’s death.
“What about Jean and Rouletabille? I know that Rouletabille was at New Wachter.”
“Jean is remaining in France,” declared de Lauriac. “As to Rouletabille, he was seriously wounded at New Wachter in an attempt to save his servant from the vengeance of the gipsies in charge of you.”
This last statement corresponded so exactly with the facts within her knowledge that she could not doubt de Lauriac’s word. But it struck a chill to her heart to learn that Jean had remained in France and made no effort to rescue her.... In very truth, she could depend only on de Lauriac, who, in spite of every obstacle, had succeeded in coming to her at the risk of his life. He was her last hope; and that very fact was in itself a torment. She was silent.
“It won’t be easy to escape,” he went on. “We must put a bold face on it.”
Odette had made up her mind. In a voice which she vainly strove to make firm she said:
“Monsieur, I shall not be lacking in courage.”
“Thank you, Odette,” murmured de Lauriac with emotion. “I shall be worthy of your trust. My life, you know, belongs to you. And now I swear to succeed.”
His last words rung ominously in Odette’s ears. She ascribed a meaning to them which left no room for misunderstanding.
“Don’t let there be any mistake. My life does not belong to you.”
De Lauriac grew pale, bowed, and said:
“Mademoiselle, I ask nothing but to be allowed to restore you to your father.”
Odette gave him her hand. He put his lips to it with great deference, and she felt much easier.
“This is what you must do when I leave you,” began de Lauriac, after looking behind the door to make sure that no one was eavesdropping.
But neither Andréa nor Callista was keeping watch on him. When de Lauriac reached the camp they were both absent. They had just left it. True, Callista did not invite Andréa to accompany her. On the contrary, it was for the express purpose of eluding his intolerable vigilance that she had entered the wood at a walking pace, choosing the moment of her escape when Andréa’s attention was monopolized by old Zina’s story of her troubles with Odette.
Callista lived only for the bitter satisfaction of revenge. In the days when she was a “Parisienne” she would never have believed it possible to take up again so easily the life of the road, with its free and easy intercourse. She had submitted once more to gipsy habits without revolt and even without repugnance, as though she had never tasted the refined enjoyments of modern society. At moments she was surprised at herself, but she attributed so much complaisance to the intense satisfaction which she felt in knowing that she was wreaking her revenge. The sight of Odette’s misery was a sufficient reward. She never wearied of seeing her in tears, and the thought of Jean’s despair made her heart leap.
How that man had played her false! What a fool he had made of her! What a thing of little account she was in his eyes! He had never really loved her. She had never been anything to him but a plaything, and he had abandoned her as if it were the most natural thing conceivable, a course which she ought to have foreseen. She had never ceased in his eyes to be the vagrant of the road whom one favours with a passing smile and then allows to sink into the gutter again.
That was it! But she had dragged down Odette with her. Let him come and take her away from her. The gipsies of the world would be ranged against him. The peculiar fate by which the entire race had become her accomplice in this act of revenge delighted her as though it were a smile from the gods.
It was written!...
She stole into the wood and the fresh cool breeze blowing from the distant hills caressed her face. She crept forward, trampling under her osier sandals the thin, dry, tall grass, sprinkled with wild flowers. It was the hour when a mist rises from the soil and every plant gives forth its perfume. Eastwards, clouds still hung in the sky in wide pink and amber-tinted streaks, which seemed to have been carelessly painted by some gigantic brush. The sombre darkness of the sky was suddenly illumined by a conflagration among the dry rushes which overlapped the banks of the rivers and pools. And then darkness fell again.
The wind rose higher; above her head the branches seemed to twist their arms in threatening gestures.
Callista thought it time to return to the camp. She, too, like so many others, feared nothing at heart, save those mysterious and indefinable things which manifest themselves in the dark and are ever ready to beset us with calamity.
She turned back and found herself confronted with a motionless shadow. But she perceived that it was the shadow of a man, and at once recovered her composure.
“Oh, it’s you, Andréa,” she said in an angry voice. “What do you want now? Can’t you leave me in peace for a moment?”
“Listen to me, Callista,” returned Andréa gently in a trembling voice. “You know what was agreed between us, and you know I love you. I have done everything you wished me to do. You must have pity on me. I tell you I love you.”
“And I tell you I don’t love you.”
A silence ensued. She could hear his breathing in the dark — the hoarse breathing of an animal preparing to spring upon its quarry. She flung herself aside, and started to run back to the camp, whose distant fires revealed the trunks of the trees to the level of their gigantic roots.
He made a grab at her and remorselessly dragged her back to him.
“No more of this nonsense. If you don’t love me I’ll make you. You’ve played with me long enough.”
She tried to push him aside.
“At Sever Turn,” she snapped. “You know what I said: At Sever Turn.”
“You’ll never see Sever Turn again if you don’t give in now.”
He was like a savage. She struggled furiously. She saw the gleam of a knife in his hands. He was in deadly earnest. She realized that he was not playing now, and since she was not tired of life, she ceased struggling. —
Then, when he saw her in his arms accepting the inevitable, he seated her gently beside him and began to caress and kiss her and stroke her hair. He uttered tender words in ardent tones in the gipsy way.
She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of him.
To all appearances she was submissive. He pressed a kiss upon her icy lips.
Suddenly the sound of voices broke forth from the camp, and there was a mad rush to the woods. The despairing cries brought them to their feet. Someone passing in the darkness shouted:
“They’ve carried off the queyra.”
CHAPTER XXXVII
AT SEVER TURN
EVENTS FOLLOWED THE course prepared by de Lauriac. We know that the three men had had time to study the ground and take their bearings before the gipsies arrived upon the scene. De Lauriac, warily working in his own interests, had made up his mind how to effect Odette’s escape. She was ready to accept his suggestions. For that matter the scheme was a simple one.
When he left the caravan, he held a brief conversation with Sumbalo, who desired him to stay to supper and spend the night in the camp, but de Lauriac fell back on the orders which he had received, and declined the invitation. He had to set out without delay. Accordingly he mounted his horse and rode off westward at the gallop, expecting to meet Jean and Roule
tabille.
He heard a whistle and pulled up, and saw to his great surprise that Jean was alone. Jean told him that Rouletabille was endeavouring to inspect the farther side of the camp, and he asked anxiously after Odette.
“All goes well,” returned de Lauriac. “The gipsies suspect nothing, and I am to return across country and wait at a certain place, where Odette will come to me. — She will be accompanied, I expect, by old Zina. I will get away with Odette and come back to you.”
“I will come with you,” said Jean.
“That would jeopardize our success. The camp is well guarded. I may be recognized. As far as I am concerned there is no risk. I should tell them that I had returned because I had forgotten something that I had to say to the queen, and I should spend the night in camp, waiting the first favourable opportunity that offers.”
“Go ahead, and may God be with us,” said Jean.
De Lauriac rode off and Jean drew near the camp in his wake, determined to keep watch on his rival from the distance. But he soon lost all trace of him. He pulled up on some rising ground, from which, when the moon peeped between two clouds, the eye could take in the plain as far as the outskirts of the wood.
Half an hour after de Lauriac’s departure Odette opened her caravan door. The gipsies were taking their supper, sheltered from the violence of the wind by their wheeled cabins. Zina saw her and went up to her.
“Would you like to have something to eat, light of my life?” she asked.
The old hag displayed unspeakable joy when Odette accepted some black bread and milk. She expressed a wish to wander round the camp before going to bed. Zina threw a wrap over her shoulders and went with her. No attempt was made to stop them. The gipsies knew that they could not elude the cordon of sentinels keeping guard over the queen at night.
Odette stole forward under the trees with a careless step, plucking the tall ferns.
“I want to sleep in the open to-night. I’m tired of your little old witch of a woman’s truckle bed.”
Zina, a slave to her whims, eagerly loaded herself with ferns. Suddenly, raising her head, she realized that Odette was gone. There was a stir in the foliage ahead.
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