Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  Jean wrapped himself in a horse-rug which had been thrown to him. He was conscious that he was being guarded, and that any attempt on his part to escape was bound to fail, at least for the present.

  He closed his eyes and strove to sleep.... A hand was placed on his shoulder. He looked round.

  Callista lay beside him and whispered to him with her lips almost touching his ear.

  She explained that her rage against him was but a bit of play-acting intended to deceive her people. If he liked... if he was willing, he had but to say the word and nothing was lost.

  “In losing Odette I have lost everything,” returned Jean, who knew how much he was making her suffer.

  She dug her nails into his hands and he almost cried out.

  “You must be mad,” she whispered. “Why aggravate me? I am your last hope.”

  He chuckled furtively. It was a precious satisfaction to him in his misery to perceive that this woman, who like himself was in the slough of despair, was still in subjection to him.

  “One word and we will escape together,” she whispered.

  Once more he gave a dull chuckle. She put her hand over his mouth.

  “You have no idea what they will do to you. You don’t know what is in store for you in Sever Turn. If you knew you would think it over, or rather you would say: ‘Let’s get away. Let’s get away at once.’ I don’t ask you to love me. I ask only one thing: Let me save your life. Say yes.”

  “And you will escape with me?”

  “I should have to go with you, of course. What does it matter to you? You used to love me. Have we not spent many happy hours together? Remember how pleased you were to introduce me to your friends. I was not like other women, you said. Remember, Jean! Remember! No I am not like other women. And I shall know how to make you forget your Odette.”

  He refused to listen to her any more. He turned away as a hint that he was tired of hearing her, but she continued her entreaties, tortured by his icy-coldness though her warm breath caressed his ear. Suddenly she was caught in an iron grip and thrown violently away from him like a bundle. And the volley of gipsy oaths which followed were accompanied by kicks which made her rise in part and gasp with fury. And then a mighty box on the ear flung her to the ground again where she lay sobbing loudly, cowed.

  She had taken advantage of the slumbering Andréa to go to Jean, but her muffled pleadings had at last wakened him, and he intervened in his own peculiar fashion. There was no argument. It was the way of the gipsy world. Callista had received her deserts.

  She considered it useless to offer any protest.

  In the morning they struck camp and proceeded towards Sever Turn. Jean was taken off in the caravan in which Odette had been held captive.

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  THE SCARECROW AND THE FLY

  THE FIRST THING that caught Jean’s eye were the words which Odette seemingly had cut with a knife: “Help, little Zo!” It was a cruel moment, the bitterest moment that he had yet experienced in the course of this adventure.

  And so, in her hour of distress, her thoughts had turned to Rouletabille! Jean’s name was nowhere to be seen.

  Little Zo! It was a pet name which she used with apparent innocence at Lavardens, because this diminutive of Joseph, his Christian name, amused her, and Jean in his simplicity had regarded it as perfectly straightforward. How they had laughed in their sleeves at him! At that time he was mainly concerned about de Lauriac, and de Lauriac was a saint compared with the crafty Rouletabille.

  And thus poets, always in extremes, allow their feelings to fly off at a tangent — one moment in admiration and the next in hatred — their imaginations the sport of the most trivial incident. Those, three words cut in the wood were more convincing; proof of his misfortune than all de Lauriac’s stories of his interview with Madame de Meyrens. At all events they constituted an extraordinary confirmation of them.

  Let the gipsies do with him at Sever Turn what they pleased. Life, the entire world of created things, had become intolerable to him. He asked nothing better than to have done with it. —

  He would have been still more convinced — if needs be — of the vanity of friendship had he known that Rouletabille, at the very moment when he was cursing his treachery, saw him pass, a prisoner in the gipsies power, a pitiful figure pressing his face against the caravan window, but otherwise seemingly unconcerned. Rouletabille exhibited no particular emotion at the sight of him. He made no attempt to follow him.... Under this date, indeed, we find the following entry in Rouletabille’s diary:

  “Jean has just passed me guarded by gipsies. He has allowed himself to be nabbed, the ass! He would have done better to come with me as I begged and implored him to do. But no! My gentleman insisted on acting solely upon his own judgment; he had had enough of mine. A fine result! Here I am deprived of all my forces. I no longer have any troops, and I shall probably have to fight a world of enemies.

  “The result will depend on what will happen very shortly. I have been waiting for de Lauriac for some ‘ thirty-six hours. He is bound to be here soon. I have come to this place leaning, as ever, on ‘the right end of my judgment,’ which told me that I must look for him on the road to Sever Turn. Whatever our Jean may have said, it is here that de Lauriac will indubitably come with her. He must pass this way. I am positive of it.

  “I was unable to give Jean my reasons for feeling so positive. I thought it well over, but knowing him ‘ as I do, it would be utterly impossible. He ought to have accepted my word, but if a person is to believe in me that person must be in sympathy with me. Jean does not like me any more. My one consolation is that he will be worshipping me in another fortnight.

  “Meantime there is a distinct lack of modern comfort here. I am hiding in an old hut. The plain stretches before me. The hills lie behind, and behind them again is the Patriarchate. I am on the threshold which Odette must not be allowed to cross. It is the threshold of the grave for her as the poet might say.

  “Fortunately de Lauriac does not expect to see me here, nor can he have any suspicion that I am expecting to see him. I shall have the advantage of taking him by surprise. I must win the fight before he is aware that I am making an attack. Otherwise — I should cut a poor figure against him. He can shoot a swallow on the wing; with one twist make a bull roll in the dust; and he can handle a horse like a veritable Centaur!

  “Yes, but I am more artful than he is. And it is ‘ this which will kill that’ as old Victor Hugo says.

  “From my position the eye can take in the road before me for about a league. I shall see the gallant horseman ride up with Odette more or less bound in front of him.

  “To be sure, he has no need now to worry himself. His only risk is lest he should encounter gipsies — gipsies returning from Sever Turn, and they if needs be, would come to his assistance. Yes, but this is the position: I have prepared a nice little surprise for him.

  “If there were no danger of killing or wounding Odette I should fire my revolver as he passed — his offence this time is obvious — and I feel that his abrupt departure from this life would not keep me awake at nights. But for Odette’s sake I must play a safe hand, that is to say, shoot point blank at him. And herein lies the difficulty. The road is on a level with the plain until we reach the frontier. Up to this point it is almost entirely open country on my right and left. My hut stands on the first spur of the mountain, much too far away to enable me to remain hidden in it. That is the crux of the problem. It is essential for me to be on the road-side, but there is no place in which I can take cover, and yet de Lauriac must not see me.... So what was I to do?

  “Well, there is a cornfield by the road-side. The corn is still green and quite short, and in the cornfield, near the road, stands a scarecrow.

  “Yes, an ordinary scarecrow placed there to keep away the birds....

  “It came in splendidly. This scarecrow was dressed in a peculiar frock-coat, or rather a tattered overcoat, which imparted to it an altogether sumptuous
appearance. Its arms were outstretched and seemed to be calling down a blessing on the harvest to come. Finally it wore a hat, a soft felt hat with turned down brim, which gave to the whole conglomeration a somewhat doggish air.

  “The reader must have grasped the situation....

  “I slipped into the scarecrow’s clothes. I rammed the hat on one side so as to hide my face. I stretched out my arms, and, be assured, I held in the scarecrow’s sleeve, which fortunately was a little too long for me, a Browning revolver at full cock ready to fire.

  “My man will pass close to me, and almost touch me without suspecting the least thing, and I... I shall blow out his brains. And there you are! It’s as easy as shelling peas. The problem is solved. Our dear Monsieur de Lauriac will sprawl in the dust. Odette will be saved. We will discuss matters afterwards if he is still alive. Take care!... I discern a slight cloud of dust on the road in the distance.... And now for the scarecrow!”

  Rouletabille’s diary breaks off here and begins again the next day. We extract a few lines which complete the story of the scarecrow. Rouletabille sets down the facts as if they were happening there and then:

  “I have been standing for a quarter of an hour with outstretched arms as motionless as though I were carved in wood. I begin to have cramp. Will he soon be here, the brute? I speak of de Lauriac’s horse, which he must be riding at a walking pace after covering a considerable amount of ground.... De Lauriac is now feeling safe. He allows his horse to recover his wind. Still, I am in a very fatiguing position. He might hurry up a little. I am feeling the cramp... cramp.

  “I hear the sound of horse’s hoofs on the road. The brute — this time I mean de Lauriac — has put him to the trot.... And now I have pins and needles in my feet. Hang it all, de Lauriac has slackened to a walking pace again.

  “What infinite patience one requires to be a successful scarecrow!

  “Now he is on the trot again. This time I shall have him. I steady my revolver in my right hand.... A few moments later I hear the horse’s breathing....

  “Hell and fury! As if it were not enough to have pins and needles in my feet, a fly, a gnat, a flea, a mere nothing alights on the tip of my nose just at this moment, and with an involuntary movement of my left hand I administer a resounding thump.... A shot rings out. A bullet sends my hat flying.”

  CHAPTER XL

  A FIGHT

  “OUR FIGHT WILL be like two floods, Or two winds sweeping from east and west, Or two funeral pyres whose hostile fire Shoots forth and consumes each in its wrath.”

  — Rouletabille’s “Complete Works.”

  ROULETABILLE was so intensely annoyed by the grotesque incident which nearly cost him his life, that his comments on the fight which ensued are exceedingly brief, and it would be difficult to piece the facts together from his diary alone.

  Fortunately there were moments when he was in a chatty mood, and he told the story in full before he took it into his head, in a fit of depression, to break into verse.

  “I felt the whiz of the bullet, and I was so flabbergasted by my own stupidity that I remained bareheaded, exposed to de Lauriac’s shots for, of course, he recognized me.

  “He did not consider it necessary to kill me though he might have done so without detriment to himself, for the scarecrow’s sleeve had completely slipped over my right hand, which held my revolver, and I was unable to extricate it. De Lauriac was mounted. I was on foot. He assumed that I was without a horse, having abandoned mine somewhere, and in order to get rid of me, he had only to put both spurs to his mount which he straightway proceeded to do.

  “Odette, who was lying across the saddle in front of him, had not uttered a cry. I concluded that she was gagged or, possibly, had fainted.

  “After throwing off, not without difficulty, the miserable scarecrow’s clothes, the use of which I had regarded for the moment as one of the finest ideas that had ever occurred to me, I started to run. Seeing me come hot foot behind him while his horse was galloping at full speed, de Lauriac gave a laugh — a jeering laugh which he sent me by way of a last good-bye.

  “It was in this way that the ruffian reached the hills where he stopped to take his breath after the encounter. Then he continued his way for about half an hour at an easy jog-trot. I repeat that he could consider himself safe, inasmuch as the frontier was within a few hour’s march, and there was not a person in the district who would not fly to his assistance at the first summons.

  “Suddenly there was a great clatter on his left. He turned round and saw me making for him like a whirlwind. This time I, too, was in the saddle.

  “I had hidden my horse between two undulations of the ground, behind the first spur of the hills, in what I venture to say was an excellent strategic position, for a goats’ track led me straight to it, and another ran down from it, intersecting, a little farther away, the road which wound round the side of the hills.... Consequently we were flung-against each other as soon as de Lauriac once more put his horse to the gallop.

  “The ridiculous result of the first manoeuvre had rendered me mad with rage. I was determined to make an end of my man, who was more than I could stand.

  “The impact was tremendous. Our horses reared, and neighed, and foamed at the mouth as if they were about to tear each other to pieces, and it was this which for the time being saved me.

  “I hoped to unhorse him because I dared not use my revolver lest I should hit Odette, but he fired at me point blank, and certainly my last hour would have come had not my mount, prancing on his hind legs, formed a shield for me. The horse received three bullets in the chest, and other shots merely grazed me as I rolled in the dust beside him. I had the good luck to avoid being underneath him, and was on my feet in a flash. I leapt at the nose of de Lauriac’s horse. This time I had the advantage, for my adversary had exhausted his ammunition and was deprived of any means of attack.

  “I called upon him to surrender, levelling my revolver at his horse’s head, but, worse luck, he gave me a savage kick in the chest which caused my weapon to swerve, and threw me violently to the ground, dazed and bleeding.

  “I spat blood. I was blinded with rage. My craft had availed me nothing, and I was worsted in this absurd encounter. There are certain days when I have no luck! For that matter, nothing had prospered with me since my accident on the railway, and since that old hag Zina had come to tend me. She must have cast her evil eye on me.

  “Meanwhile de Lauriac passed out of sight with Odette hanging as though lifeless on his arm.

  “Then I caught sight of him again on another ridge of the mountain. A band of gipsies was running up to him. He spoke to them, flinging out his arm in my direction. I could hear their infuriated cries, and collecting my last remnant of strength I crept into a crevice in the rock; a sort of cave, the mouth of which I hurriedly concealed with a few brambles.

  “I dragged in my impedimenta — I mean my toilet necessaries rolled up in my rug. I determined to die in this hole if I were discovered, though, of course, I should sell my life dearly.

  “But I was left in peace. They passed very near me without suspecting the existence of my hiding-place. Nevertheless, I had no reason to be proud of myself. I had been worsted in the whole business by a fly!”

  CHAPTER XLI

  A DARK PRISON

  SEVER TURN! THE ancient city with its mouldy and tumble-down houses, tottering walls, broken roads, discoloured frontages, crumbling palace, antiquated court house, and gloomy towers guarding the sanctuary which throughout the centuries, despite devastating revolutions, invasions and plagues, had maintained its immemorial traditions and sacred ceremonies — the aspect of this ancient city was changed from the first proclamation of the glad news. Sever Turn was but a shroud, and it had become a festival of hanging draperies. It was but a lamentation, and it had become a city of song.

  Let us hark back to the early hours of the enchantment. Never was there such a display of carpets, flags, banners. The bells pealed; the people made merry. The
country folk flocked from distant lands, their donkeys laden with children waving flowers. Men on the ramparts discharged their weapons, and young girls brought baskets of fragrant flowers to the public squares. An excited crowd stood waiting unweariedly for her who was coming.

  The city as far as the new European quarter — so the gipsies called it as though they were still a barbaric tribe of Asia — was crowded with travellers and tourists who had come out of their way to witness the fateful event.

  The Hôtel des Balkans, which was close to the caravanserai, wore a new pink coat; its shutters were newly painted green; the windows of its banqueting hall newly cleaned. The flagstones of the entrance lobby shone like marble; the hotel flew the large new flag of the Consul of Wallachia — an important person occupying the best rooms on the first floor as befitted the representative of the whole diplomatic corps — and might almost be taken for a palace. Here was the centre of modern society while across the street dwelt the life of the middle ages.

  Let us enter the temple. Let us cross the courtyard of this stronghold alive with priests and people thronging the porch in a multi-coloured mass. The rich are clad in their red shirts and yellow tunics and steel waistbands inlaid with gold and silver; and yet the ragged and tattered have their rich hues which vie with the red shirts and yellow tunics, in this bewildering and varied scale of civilization.

  Under a blazing sun the priests, all in black with long veils like women in mourning, come and go, holding aloft golden ikons.... A great joy is depicted on every countenance.... They have come!

  . They will see their young queen!... They repeat the prophetic verses from the Book of Ancestors, the book which was stolen from them.

  . They are waiting for their queyra.... At long last the iron doors of the temple are opened and the people flock into it....

  Suddenly a mighty clamour bursts forth under the sacred roof, and the messenger of misfortune arrives. He is covered with dust and, in the last stages of exhaustion, sinks in a huddled heap at the feet of the Patriarch.