“The queyra has been carried off by aliens,” he cries, and has strength to add: “But we are bringing you one of the kidnappers.”
A tremendous silence fell in the temple, a silence more terrible than words can picture, forming an awful contrast to the yells of despair which began to break forth from the four corners of the ill-fated city.
The Patriarch did not deign to cast a glance at the messenger. He drew himself up and waited, motionless as a statue; and it seemed as if he were surrounded by other statues, by others who had become old men like himself. He stood thus until the great chief who had just entered the temple led the prisoner up to him....
“Well, that fellow won’t make old bones,” said Monsieur Nicolas Tournesol in an undertone, behind a pillar as he watched the prisoner pass before him pursued by the murderous gestures of the rabble.
Monsieur Nicolas Tournesol was a commercial traveller. He was, perhaps, the only commercial traveller who had ever set foot in the Patriarchate where, moreover, he did an excellent business in his particular brand of champagne and tins of preserved meat. He was the sole representative in Sever Turn of trade with Europe, just as the Consul of Wallachia was the sole representative of the diplomatic corps of both hemispheres.
But we must return to the prisoner who was none other than Jean de Santierne. He was in a pitiful state. When he reached the city gates he was almost torn to pieces. His captors were compelled to make a detour and effect an entrance through an ancient disused water-course which led to one of the courtyards in the temple. And here he escaped being stoned only because the great chief walked beside him, for the people of Sever Turn feared and esteemed their war minister.... Not that he had won many battles, but he had a way of handling the whip which enforced respect... Jean was covered with blood. Supported by the great chief, he clambered up the steps amid the hooting of the populace to where the Patriarch stood surrounded by his choir of old men who had fallen back into curule chairs. Sumbalo, Andréa, Suco the blacksmith, and others who had assisted in his capture, brought up the rear. Zina was nowhere to be seen, for, since the disappearance of Odette, she was like a living corpse.
Callista remained behind watching without taking part in the proceedings. She was in a state of mind which caused Her greatly to suffer because, in her heart, her execration of Jean contended with a feeling of remorse for having led him with her own hands to the brink of the abyss into which he was to be hurled. Even that form of hatred went by the name of love.... But what had she come there for? To hear sentence pronounced on him, without the shadow of a doubt. But assuredly it would not be the satisfaction to her which in the pitiless ferocity of her original resentment she had promised herself. The heart of a woman, we know, is made up of inconsistencies.
“Here is the criminal,” said the great chief, thrusting Jean before the Patriarch.
The dead silence which prevailed in the temple was broken by a thousand voices shouting “Death! and the shout was taken up and echoed by the people outside. It came like a thunderclap which, following the terrible silence of a few minutes before, when they learnt of the loss of their queen, sent a shudder through the bravest heart.
Monsieur Nicolas Tournesol himself, who had seen many worse things in his life, muttered sadly:
“Poor fellow.”
Callista was almost fainting.
“Death! Death!”
Was it true that her Jean was to be put to death?
. Suddenly the enormity of her deed broke in upon her. She had willed Odette’s death, and it was Jean who was about to die. In an impulse of which she was unconscious she went up to the Patriarch and threw herself at his feet.
“Mercy for this man!” cried she who, in very truth, was Jean’s executioner.
A tremendous clamour and a blow from Andréa’s fists silenced her. He pushed her roughly down the steps, sending her sprawling on the stone floor.
Then the Patriarch spoke: —
“Do you deny your complicity in the abduction of the queyra?” he asked.
Jean did not reply, for he was unable to understand the question which was put to him in the Romany tongue. Andréa translated it, and Jean made answer that, as a matter of fact, he had done his utmost to rescue his future wife from the hands of those who had stolen her from him, and if he were free he would do the same again. They did not expect so complete a confession. It was more than enough.
The tumult broke out with renewed vigour. There was a serious commotion, and the guards had as much as they could do to keep order.
The Patriarch lifted his hand, and silence was restored:
“Remember that you and your people have committed the greatest crime that it is possible to conceive, and if you do not help us by making amends, the consequences will fall entirely upon you.”
“I do not attach much value to my life,” returned Jean, “but I may as well tell you that I am a French subject, and you will be held responsible for my death.”
“Our answer will be that your death was but an act of justice.... Come, take time to think. Listen to the threatening cries of the people, who are losing patience. We shall discover our queen where ever she may be, wherever you may have hidden her. Her fate is written, and yours is in the very course of being written. Do you intend to help us?”
Jean shrugged his shoulders. The gesture was an affront to the dignity of the high priest and the temple.
The prisoner’s insult produced another outbreak of passion. Shouts of “Death!” were mingled with cries of “Torture!” Some demanded that he should be burnt in a slow fire; others that he should be drawn and quartered; others again that he should die on the cross. The doorkeepers fought with the crowd to keep them from the sacred building, but were borne down with the crush.
The Patriarch, incited by the fears of the elders, hastened to pronounce judgment:
“We condemn you to death by starvation.”
The sentence was generally regarded as a mild one, and many protestations were made, but some persons explained that it was a wise sentence, for apart from the fact that starvation was a painful death, it would give Jean time for reflection, and he might make up his mind to tell them where the queyra was hidden.
He was at once taken by guards to the underground part of the temple and marched through dark, stifling passages hollowed out of the rock to the palace dungeons. A door with iron bars half-way up was opened, which apparently had not been used for a considerable time, for a crowd of rats inside scampered away with a great noise.
It was a hideous cell. The great chief pushed Jean into it. It was in this place that he was to die.
CHAPTER XLII
IN WHICH NICOLAS TOURNESOL MAKES LOVE
A FEELING OF gloomy dismay followed the enthusiasm which had stirred the city. In a little while the scene was changed. The gorgeous finery with which the buildings had been dressed disappeared as if by magic, and the dreary, faded, wrinkled face of the ancient city looked down anew upon its suffering people. The flowers in the streets were trampled under foot. Gone was the music; gone the decorations. On the towers of the temple arms were uplifted, imploring divine mercy; but suddenly the heavens became stormy and were wrapped in an ashen mantle tinder which, it seemed, all earthly hopes lay buried.
Monsieur Nicolas Tournesol sauntered back to his hotel with a somewhat dejected air. He had greatly relied on the coronation fêtes to establish, once for all, his fortune. He received a large - commission, particularly on the sale of champagne, and had set his hopes upon an almost unlimited consumption. Unfortunately, events were against him, and his stock would be left on his hands.
It was therefore in a somewhat dejected mood that he stepped into the deserted hotel lobby, for the visitors had left to see the sights. Nevertheless, Nicolas Tournesol hated dull care. He decided to fight against it with the help of a few special gin cocktails, in the making of which he was an adept pupil of Vladislas Kamenos, the proprietor, who was his own barman.
He settled himself
on a high stool before the mahogany counter at the back of the room, and with a long metal spoon was preparing to make music with the glasses, when a lady of lively appearance dressed simply but smartly entered the room.
They looked at each other. The lady went on her way and Tournesol got off his stool.
“Why, I’ve seen that face somewhere!”
The newcomer went over to a small table on which lay an inkstand, and was beginning to write a letter when she saw standing before her a stout young man with a good-humoured face, who bowed very low.
“I beg you to excuse me, madame, but there’s no one in Sever Turn or anywhere else in the Balkans to introduce me. Let me therefore introduce myself. I am Monsieur Tournesol... Nicolas Tournesol.”
“My goodness,” returned the lady, smiling. “I see no reason why you should not introduce yourself.”
“Don’t you recognize me? Tournesol, traveller in champagne, the friend of princes, dukes, and particularly of bars.... We spent one evening together with some friends of yours in a palatial bar.”
“Really, monsieur, I never go to such places.”
“Anyway, someone took you there that evening. Look here, it was about five years ago. Aren’t you Madame de Meyrens?”
“You are quite right.... Yes, yes, of course, I remember now. Gracious, how funny you were! You were making declarations of love to all the ladies.”
“Did I make a declaration to you, madame?”
“Indeed, you did not.”
“There’s plenty of time,” returned Nicolas Tournesol imperturbably, seating himself without further ado beside Madame de Meyrens. “Vladislas, two cocktails — here!... Will you allow me, madame, to offer you a cocktail? Do you know you look very charming.”
“I say, you are going it, Monsieur Tournesol.”
“I fear nothing as long as we enjoy ourselves. Pardon, madame, my intentions are strictly honourable. I know to whom I am speaking, and I shall not be lacking in respect for you if you like my style.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you?”
“I will tell you presently.”
“Well, I will tell you at once what I am doing here. The war ruined me and I am doing anything I can. I sell things. I am the channel of communication, if I may say so, between the manufacturer, the agent and the wholesale merchant; the vade semper of the duplicate entry, the unsaleable article, and the surplus stock; the purveyor loved by the packer, the cartage commissary, and the drayman; the god of the hotel-keeper, the despot of the dinner table, the boss of the smoking-room, and the darling of the ladies.”
“Spare my blushes,” said Madame de Meyrens. “But I can’t allow you to smoke a pipe.”
“Oh, it’s easy to see that you are a woman of fashion.... Have you been here long?”
I’ve only just come. I came to see the queen, but it seems that there is no queen.”
“They’ve found her again,” yelled Vladislas, running in from the street.
He hurriedly gave orders to the servants to lay the carpets on the balconies again, to hang the flags out of the windows, and to place flowers everywhere. Tournesol, turning scarlet, made a grab at him.
“Is it true?”
“I tell you that she has been found again. A horseman has just brought her in. He took her away from the aliens. The city is once more in a commotion. There! Listen to the bells.”
And indeed they were again ringing a full peal. It was a tremendous symphony, a song of gladness resounding above the tumult of rejoicing.
“I’m going to see what’s happening,” said Madame de Meyrens, making for the door.
“Wait a bit and we’ll go together. We won’t lose sight of each other,” said Monsieur Tournesol, placing his arm in that of Madame de Meyrens, who did not appear to raise any great objection. Nevertheless, a few minutes later she slipped away in the crowd, but Tournesol swore to find her again.
Vladislas had already set out for the city; and the hotel staff, following his example, left their duties.
CHAPTER XLIII
THE MISSING PAGE
WE SHALL MAKE no attempt to describe de Lauriac’s triumphal entry into Sever Turn. He was escorted by a band of gipsies, who proclaimed the news before they passed the ramparts. Odette had been given a draught of their own concoction which would have resuscitated a corpse!
She lay in de Lauriac’s arms without power of resistance, and from the saddle he showed her to the people as though she were a new Pallas and Sever Turn a new Troy. A few patriotic and impressive words in Romany accompanied this exhibition of the queen, foretold in the sacred writings, and increased the delirium of the crowd. They took de Lauriac for a gipsy and a brother.
“The queen is here! The queen is here!”
The first person to throw herself at the feet of the idol when she entered the temple was Zina. Odette was half carried and half led to the Patriarch, who received her with outstretched hands, trembling with respect and emotion. He gently assisted her to the ivory throne set aside for her, and when she was seated, knelt before her thrice, murmuring the time-honoured ritual.
Following his example, the people knelt down thrice and thrice stood up, singing the song of victory which concluded the hymn to Debla, the saint of the day.
Then de Lauriac went up to the Patriarch and asked to be allowed to speak.
Andréa stepped forward in his turn:
“This man is an impostor and guilty of sacrilege. He is not a gipsy. He is an alien belonging to Les Saintes Maries, and Sumbalo, the chief, and Suco, the blacksmith, recognize in him the queen’s real abductor.”
Having thus spoken, he laid violent hands on de Lauriac’s disguise, tearing the false beard from his face amid a scene of wild disorder.
De Lauriac remained impassive despite the affront, and folding his anus, said:
“I knew that a plot was being formed against the queen by aliens.... I took part in the plot so that it might fail and that I might restore her for whom you are waiting.”
“What was your object in so doing?” demanded the Patriarch, who, from the beginning of the incident, had been severely scrutinizing the stranger.
“Do you ask me that?” exclaimed de Lauriac. “Have you forgotten the sacred text: ‘The prediction must be fulfilled.’”
The Patriarch lifted his handsome grey head, while his face was illumined with a sudden inspiration.
“This man speaks the truth. This man is the messenger sent by St. Sarah,” he declared.
“Look at me,” went on de Lauriac, appealing to the elders. “Cannot one of you recognize me? Two years ago one of you, struck down by the plague, entrusted the book to my keeping.... If he is alive, let him speak: if he is dead, let him come forth from the grave.”
“So it was you,” cried one of the elders. “It was you of whom my old friend Father Autischine spoke before he died. It was you to whom he entrusted the book?”
“Where is the book?” asked the Patriarch.
“The book was stolen from me by an alien, who fled the country,” returned de Lauriac. “I have searched for him in vain, but I was able to find the most precious page in it, which had been torn from it.”
He no sooner finished speaking than he showed the sacred page to the Patriarch and the Council of Elders who crowded round him.
Then the Patriarch read in a sonorous voice, which could be heard as far as the forecourt of the temple:
“‘The Daughter of the Race will be marked with the sign of the crown and be stolen by aliens.... And an alien shall restore her to the city, and she shall be proclaimed queyra and he king. And thus, by their union, the race shall be regenerated.’”
A wild outburst of applause greeted the reading of the sacred text and ten thousand voices cried: “It is written! It is written!”
The Patriarch took de Lauriac by the hand and led him to Odette, who like an ikon, as insensible to all seeming as the ivory of her throne, watched the scene in which she was the princip
al figure.
“The King of the World has made him the king of this land,” cried the Patriarch. “This man shall be your husband.”
At this juncture a sort of meteor whirled through the building amid the shouts, protests and cries of women and children thrust aside and thrown down in its passage. The meteor did not stay its course until it was before the Patriarch. It was Rouletabille.
“I am sorry, monsieur le Patriarch,” he said, but I have something to say before the ceremony begins.”
CHAPTER XLIV
THE SIGN OF THE CROWN
AN IMMENSE TUMULT ensued. The assembly broke forth into loud maledictions, and it would have gone ill with Rouletabille if a dignified gesture on the part of the Patriarch had not stopped the rush which was being made on him.
Andréa, Callista, Zina, and the rest of Sumbalo’s tribe were all speaking together, or rather shrieking at the top of their voices, threatening Rouletabille with clenched fists.
Odette seemed to come to herself from the languor which had taken possession of her and stood up, flinging out her arms to this hope of salvation — Rouletabille! But she fell back almost at once as if conscious of the reality of things, and as if this vision were but a phantom from the nightmares of the past.
The great chief, with his fiercest expression, walked over to the intruder who had dared to violate the sacred precincts.
When the disorder was at length stilled, they began to talk, but could not understand each other. Rouletabille spoke the language of the gaschi, the vile aliens, which was unintelligible to most of them. The Patriarch called for the services of a spectacled old bookman, who had spent a lifetime in libraries and knew many languages, and with this official interpreter to help them the people were able to grasp the meaning of the colloquy.
Rouletabille, like Cassandra, who had the evil eye not less than Zina, predicted that the gipsy race would suffer untold calamities if the Patriarch and Council of Elders brought to a conclusion the criminal work on which they were engaged. He declared his conviction that the God of the Romanys, who was also the God of the Christians, and in particular of the French — the French were the first to dedicate a temple to St. Sarah, who was a blessed servant of God and the guardian of her people — had imbued the mind of the high priest with too much wisdom, and the hearts of the Council of Elders with too much goodness, to permit them to become accomplices in an act of sacrilege.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 127