Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  Chéri-Bibi closed the door, leant against the wall, and with a hand shaking like that of a confirmed drunkard tore open the envelope. He recognised his own notepaper; the notepaper that lay on his desk in the drawing room. Rose had written the letter that very evening. Had she changed her mind? Had she decided after all not to speak? With a mist before his eyes he with difficulty deciphered her writing.

  “I am aware of the crime of which you and de Pont-Marie are guilty. It is unnecessary, is it not, for me to state more plainly to which crime I refer. I kept silent during your mother’s lifetime, because I was devoted to her and loved her, and I verily believe that in watching over the peace and honour of her last days I have sacrificed the repose of my soul. Wittingly I allowed an innocent man to suffer. But the hour of expiation has struck. Knowing that magistrates would be here, I came to your house this evening with the full intention of delivering you up to the justice of man. Nevertheless as I crossed the threshold of this old Château in which I have lived so many years with an honourable family, my heart was touched with compassion, and I thought it would suffice, perhaps, if I assisted the justice of God... I have evidence of your crime. I swear on the grave of my dear mistress, your mother, that I will destroy this evidence if you have the courage to inflict punishment upon yourself, You must kill yourself, monsieur le Marquis.”

  “Well” asked de Pont-Marie, “What does she say?”

  “Nothing that concerns you,” he returned, very pale. “She does not even mention you.”

  “What did I tell you? There’s no doubt she was only waiting for the Marchioness’s death... Oh the baggage!... Come Maxime release me... Release me, damn it. You see for yourself that we must make a bolt for it.”

  “Wait, I tell you” said Chéri-Bibi in an unspeakably mournful voice. “Perhaps she’s coming up here.”

  “Is that our last hope?”

  “Yes.”

  Again there was a knock at the door, and the Dodger appeared with Rose’s answer.

  The old lady was still in the drawing room with Sister St. Mary of the Angels, and sent word refusing to come up for she had nothing further to discuss with the Marquis. Nevertheless she had written a few words which she enclosed in an envelope. Chéri-Bibi flung himself upon it. “I give you half an hour” said the fresh message. It was short but full of meaning.

  Chéri-Bibi tore out a leaf from his notebook and wrote: “You had compassion at one time on my mother, have compassion to-day on my wife and child. Do not deprive them of a husband and father who is devoted to them and bitterly repents his past sins. It is not so much myself whom you would strike as an innocent and hapless family. Think of it, and do not be more relentless than the justice of man to which there is a limitation.”

  He folded the note in four and gave it to the Dodger who stared in bewilderment at his distraught expression and trembling hands.

  “Good Heavens what’s up?” asked the secretary piteously.

  “I will explain things presently” said Chéri-Bibi in a hoarse voice. “Go. Ask Rose to read this, then tear it up, or rather bring it back to me for I don’t want it to go astray.”

  The Dodger made off.

  “Good Lord,” exclaimed de Pont-Marie, “she refuses to come up. Well, we must go down and fetch her, and compel her to shut her mouth at all costs.”

  “Impossible,” returned Chéri-Bibi in a voice of peculiar calmness. “She won’t leave Sister St. Mary of the Angels.”

  “Well?”

  “Well,” returned the other in increasingly icy tones, “I can’t kill Sister St. Mary.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s no business of yours.”

  “Because she’s a nun?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  Then de Pont-Marie began to bellow again.

  “Good God release me!”

  “You call upon God which will bring you bad luck,” said Chéri-Bibi, plunged in thought.

  He sat down holding his head in his hands, and waited for Rose’s answer, giving no heed to de Pont-Marie’s protests and groans and oaths. The Dodger was not away five minutes.

  “Oh, monsieur le Marquis, Rose and Sister St. Mary certainly look as white as you do. I told you that you would do wrong to mix yourself up in this affair.”

  “Her answer?”

  “Here it is with your own returned.” He handed him an envelope which contained the two sheets of paper.

  “Is there a limitation also for your last crime? And do you think that I shall have pity on a man who, after murdering his father, killed almost before my eyes the unfortunate Dr. Walter? I came into the room in time to see you strike the blow. There is too much blood on your hands monsieur le Marquis, and I decline any longer to be an accomplice, by my silence, in your misdeeds. If at the time which I have fixed I am not certain of your death, I shall tell M. Costaud who it is that he must arrest instead of vainly searching in the shadow of poor Chéri-Bibi your first victim.”

  Chéri-Bibi shot the letter in his mouth as he had done with the others. He munched it like an animal with an entire lack of intelligence. He seemed to be in a state of stupor. And silent tears trickled down his cheeks.

  “But what’s the matter, monsieur le Marquis?” asked the Dodger, in supplicating tones.

  “The matter is that I must die my dear Dodger. Yes we thought that we were so happy and then crash! here I am about to die. Oh! have no luck.” And he wept like a child, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

  The Dodger, unnerved, fell on his knees.

  “Get up,” said Chéri-Bibi, with a piteous smile. “Get up and help me to carry this gentleman into the dark room. He is making too much noise. He worries my last moments.”

  De Pont-Marie was becoming in fact unendurable with his movements like those of a refractory frog. They carried him into the room, and as he started once more to shout aloud, they gagged him and then returned to their room.

  Chéri-Bibi drew a revolver from his pocket and loaded it in great dejection.

  The Dodger clutched him by the arm.

  “God in Heaven,” he groaned, “if it is a fact that you must die, kill me first. But I ask you, on the life of your son, to tell me what it is that forces you to kill yourself. Tell me the reason. I may, perhaps, find a way of saving your life.”

  “It’s good of you Dodger, dear friend, brave companion of my sufferings; it shows your heart of gold.... There’s nothing to be done, believe me, but to fulfil the last decree of fate. I wanted to avenge Chéri-Bibi who was innocent of the murder of the old Marquis. And do you know who did murder him? Do you know the man whom Rose came here to-day to denounce, bringing proofs with her? It’s I... I the son of the Marquis du Touchais.... The man who killed him was his own son. Oh Dodger as I have always said to you, I have never had any luck. But, even so, think of the bad luck of it... God knew what he was about when he struck me down... It’s enough to make a man weep isn’t it? True I am weeping like a poor brat, but it is not because I am afraid to die — you know I am not afraid of death — but because I am leaving Cecily and my dear little kid of whom I am so fond...

  “That’s what makes me squeal. To think that I shall never see them again... never. There, come, give me your hand Dodger... You must kiss them afterwards for me; and watch over them. You will understand the situation in two words: If I die Rose will not speak. She has promised it; she has sworn it. She is one of the best of women. She allows me by my death to save my son’s honour. At least he won’t have a murderer for a father. I am to kill myself for their sakes my dear Dodger. That in itself is enough to restore my character in my eyes and give me courage.” He looked at his watch. “I still have a good quarter of an hour. All the same, I am very grieved about it... My dear Cecily... My dear little Jacques.”

  The Dodger fell on his knees again and mingled his tears with Chéri-Bibi’s.

  “My poor wife... She was worthy of my love. Yes, in spite of the wickedness of my life, my heart was as pure as t
he heart of a child. I kept it for her. I took it to her in my two terrible hands, and she knew that it was so. She accepted it and she loved me. So you see, my dear Dodger, it would be wrong to complain, for I must pay for having tasted such happiness, and as she loved me the doors of hell may open before me now.”

  The two men gave a sob. The memory of the past... Cecily’s love... These were a softening and assuaging influence in that dying hour.

  “Good-bye Cecily, good-bye little Jacques, good-bye Dodger. Good-bye Sister St. Mary who prayed so often for me and never knew anything of my happiness. Goodbye all whom I have so greatly loved.”

  Chéri-Bibi raised his revolver, but the Dodger seized him by the arm once more with a great cry, “Monsieur you cannot kill yourself.”

  “Why not my dear Dodger?”

  “Because your death instead of saving your wife and child would dishonour them for ever.”

  Chéri-Bibi was impressed with the Dodger’s triumphant exaltation but he failed to grasp his meaning.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You have forgotten the marks on your chest.”

  “My tatoo marks?”

  “Yes, Chéri-Bibi’s tatoo marks.”

  “Curse the thing!” said Chéri-Bibi.

  “They would tell the world that your son was the son of a convict. They would reveal your secret.”

  “Wretch, wretch, thrice accursed that I am!” he cried breaking into a crowning lamentation. “Only my death can save my wife and child, and I cannot die. Fatalitas!” Chéri-Bibi in his turn fell on his knees. He wrung his hands and tore his hair.

  “Rose will speak. Rose will speak if I do not kill myself, and my son, poor little fellow, will have a curse upon him like myself. May God in Heaven crush me still further but have pity on my son! What’s to be done? What are we to do?”

  “Monsieur” returned the Dodger who was still a prey to a strange elation, “you must kill me.”

  “What do you say? Your devotion to me has turned your head.”

  “As Rose wants a dead body she shall have one. Kill me monsieur... Give me your jewellery, rings, watch, and when you have killed me set fire to me and the house... Set fire to me and the Château of your forefathers. But burn me so that I shall be beyond recognition. Disfigure me and you and your child will be saved. In my case there will be no risk of Costaud finding some morsel of skin with which he might piece together a Chéri-Bibi. Kill me and save your own life... Disappear from the place. You can keep an eye on Virginie from afar as I would have kept watch over those whom you love had I lived.”

  Chéri-Bibi gave ear to the Dodger and as he listened his eyes shone with a divine gleam of hope.

  “What splendid friendship!” he muttered, “What splendid inspiration!”

  He rose from his stooping posture and pointing to the door of the little room in which de Pont-Marie was imprisoned said:

  “We have the dead body.”

  As a matter of fact Chéri-Bibi was slightly anticipating events for de Pont-Marie was still alive, but doubtless in his mind’s eye he already saw him dead. The Dodger seized the idea.

  “You see for yourself that there is a Providence” he exclaimed in delighted tones.

  “Be quick” said Chéri-Bibi looking at his watch. “We haven’t a moment to lose.” And he slipped his watch into de Pont-Marie’s waistcoat pocket after taking his prisoner’s watch and placing it in his own pocket.

  De Pont-Marie had been carried back into the room by the two men. Unable to understand the meaning of this exchange of watches, his eyes instead of his mouth, which was still furnished with the gag, asked for an explanation, which Chéri-Bibi and the Dodger did not deem it necessary to afford him. Then there was an exchange of rings between Chéri-Bibi and de Pont-Marie which was effected with a certain roughness owing to the need for hurry. Finally Chéri-Bibi began to undress himself and was about to pass over his clothes to de Pont-Marie when the Dodger stopped him.

  “It’s not worth while. He will be so thoroughly burnt that very little of him will remain. Wait a moment please.”

  He was away for a few seconds returning with buckets, pots, and bottles.

  “It occurred to me to set the place on fire because it can be easily done. The workmen have left behind everything that is necessary for it. The passage and the little lumber room are full of pots of paint and turpentine. The house and poor M. de Pont-Marie will burn like matchwood.”

  So saying he put down his burden, rushed off again, and came back with a bundle of soiled rags and two litres.

  “What’s that?” asked Chéri-Bibi who was putting his own boots on de Pont-Marie’s feet so as to be on the safe side.

  “That” returned the Dodger throwing down the bundle, “is a house painter’s smock and some overalls which I shall be glad if you will put on at once, for here you have, right at hand, a disguise which will enable you to escape by the servants’ staircase when the place begins to burn. I’ll go down stairs and get Madame Cecily and your guests away.”

  “I leave her in your charge Dodger.”

  “Don’t worry about that monsieur le Marquis.”

  “What are you going to do with that bottle?”

  “You see, monsieur, I am pouring the contents over M. de Pont-Marie’s clothes.”

  “But what does it contain?”

  “Petrol, monsieur le Marquis.”

  The prisoner shuddered and rolled his eyes which seemed about to start from their sockets.

  “He thinks we’re going to burn him alive” said Chéri-Bibi, “He takes us for savages!”

  Having said which, Chéri-Bibi went up to de Pont-Marie from behind and passed his handkerchief, which he had twisted into a cord, round his neck, and set about strangling him, endeavouring to hurt him as little as possible. Though de Pont-Marie continued, under the pressure, to open his terrified eyes still wider, Chéri-Bibi closed his own, because the business of executioner filled him with indescribable repugnance, and at that moment of desperation so little heart was left to him that he would have preferred to die himself rather than to send to another world, by his own hand, a man who was entitled to demand the services of the public hangman. But at any rate as Chéri-Bibi could not die himself and he wanted a corpse, he took the work in hand.

  “Another one!” he groaned lifting his eyes to Heaven when de Pont-Marie ceased to give any sign of life.

  Meantime the Dodger continued to sprinkle the passages and hangings on the second floor with the rest of the petrol. He came back with a second bottle.

  “Is it all over?” he asked.

  “Yes” said Chéri-Bibi with a sigh.

  “Nothing remains now but to alter his appearance on the off chance, monsieur le Marquis.”

  And as he knelt in front of the dead man and carefully passed over his distorted features a brush which he had previously dipped in the bottle, Chéri-Bibi moved by curiosity cast a glance on the label. His secretary was “painting” the face of the man in the grey hat with sulphuric acid. The vitriol effected the work of transformation with terrible rapidity.

  “There! Now there’ll be no danger of any one saying that it isn’t the Marquis du Touchais’ face” said the Dodger rising and turning to his master. Then holding out his hand.

  “Now shake hands, monsieur le Marquis, we must say good-bye.” They shook hands.

  “My dear old Dodger.”

  “My dear monsieur le Marquis” said the Dodger, still polite in spite of his great emotion.

  They parted after speaking once more of Cecily and the boy. Chéri-Bibi darted towards the servants’ staircase while the Dodger made ready to “light the fire.” But suddenly Chéri-Bibi appeared once more, gasping for breath, more haggard-eyed than ever.

  “Damn it all the staircase is guarded. I gave the order myself. I had forgotten it.”

  “By Costaud’s men!” exclaimed the Dodger. “Well, what about it? Make a rush through them.”

  “They’ll recognise me. They�
�ll know that it’s the Marquis who is running away. Rose will know that I am not dead and will speak.”

  He seemed to be in a state of frenzy.

  “No” he cried, “No, the Marquis du Touchais is not dead... He is not dead.”

  He was a pitiable sight as his wild gaze wandered round the room and fell on de Pont-Marie’s face eaten up by the vitriol, and the bottle which was but half empty. At the height of his delirium he repeated:

  “The Marquis du Touchais is not dead as long as his face remains.”

  He went up to the Dodger with so tragic a gesture that the latter grasped his meaning for he pointed to the bottle. “No, no, not that, not that,” protested the Dodger.

  “If you refuse to help me you understand Dodger,” said Chéri-Bibi in a smothered voice. “If you refuse to paint my face as you painted the face of that villain, you’re no friend of mine.”

  “Not that, not that.”

  “No, you’re no friend of mine, because everything that we’ve done is of no avail so long as that face exists... I can’t get away as long as that face exists.”

  “Not that, not that.”

  “Look at those men who are guarding the Château. Do you want them to see the Marquis du Touchais running away when the house blazes up? Do you want Rose to see him? Come, be a man Dodger.... Show your pluck.”

  “Not that, not that Chéri-Bibi.... Never... never.” It was the first time for many a long day that the Dodger called his master by the name which was his in their adventures of old. He spoke the words in an accent of such pitiable desperation and of such intense and splendid friendship that Chéri-Bibi drew him to his breast.

  “Let us say good-bye, my dear old Dodger. No, no, I won’t ask you to do it.... No, I won’t ask you.... There, pull yourself together, I’ll manage the thing myself. Listen, I have suffered so much in the making of this face that I may as well suffer a little more in getting rid of it.”

  “Suffer a little more! Don’t do it, Chéri-Bibi. Don’t do it. They say it’s hell itself.”

  “I belong to hell, Dodger... I escaped from it and I am going back to it. What do I care? I have not loved the less on that account.... My son will not curse my memory. Good-bye, my dear fellow. You must clear out. This is a moment when I shall need all my courage.”