Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  The man servant pointed to the key which was in the lock. The peddler looked at his watch, nodded his head, and the man servant went back into the park.

  Five minutes later the peddler was hiding in a summer-house adjoining the wall, the roof of which jutted over the road near the little door. At the slightest alarm, whether from inside or outside the garden, the peddler could take refuge either in the road or in the park. The place was well chosen for a private conversation, for it was impossible to be overheard, not to mention that it was quite natural for M. de la Boulay’s guests to come there for the cool of the evening or to dream. The peddler was not kept waiting long for his “dreamer.” Almost at once Count Stanislas de Gorbio appeared.

  “Well?” he questioned.

  “I have an urgent message from Nina Noha,” the man returned, holding out a letter.

  The Count seized it, seemingly very eager to learn the contents, for diving into the summer-house, and screened by the man, he did not hesitate to bring into play a small, dark, pocket lantern. The letter was soon read. The Count appeared to be satisfied and put several questions to the peddler concerning the visits which had been made and the guests who had been received at the house during the last few days. As they were about to part company the Count asked:

  “Have you any special information regarding this Captain d’Haumont who is so much talked about? Did anyone know him before the war?”

  “I have been asking about him and I’m waiting for the reply. Be on your guard. He’s been trotting round with the governor’s daughter ever since he’s been here, and your ‘traveling agent’ just told me that he’s with her now.”

  The Count clenched his fists, sent the man away, and flung himself out of the summer house. He was nearing the Château when he caught sight, in profile before him, of the figures of Captain d’Haumont and Mlle de la Boulays. The girl was leaning on the officer’s arm. He quickened his steps without making the least sound, anxious to overhear a conversation which he inferred might be confidential and of particular interest to himself, but he could not catch a word, for, truth to tell, the two friends were saying nothing.

  The silence in no way pacified the Count. He was sufficiently man of the world and experienced in love affairs to be aware that there are silences sometimes between a man and woman which are more eloquent than the tenderest speech. It is when they understand each other best that they have least to say, and the sweetest moments are those which pass in the mute exchange of the one idea which they hold in common, and the delightful feeling of perfect harmony.

  The Count was furious. He had not thought that the danger was so real.... Up to that day he had not given a thought to it at all. He attached but slight importance to certain secret tales which had come to him from the Château servants.

  Count de Gorbio had an opinion of his own personal merits which rendered it difficult for him to comprehend that he might receive a rebuff where women were concerned. And he was convinced that in spite of Mlle de la Boulays’ laughing and chaffing air, she had been greatly affected by the delicate tact of his attentions to her. And now he discovered that he had a serious rival. De Gorbio knew, moreover, that his friends greatly relied on his marriage with Mlle de la Boulays. The obstacle which stood in his way inclined him, therefore, to take some unpleasant action against the Captain when he met him face to face in the hall.

  Moreover the two men took stock of each other with a look of hostility which the excessively cheerful air of the one and the excessively frigid air of the other failed to conceal; but a voice behind them said:

  “Count, I’ve been speaking of our plans to the Captain, who is my sincere friend. He has given me advice which tells me that he will soon be your friend. To-night you may ask my father for my hand.”

  As he heard those words which overwhelmed him and for which he was so little prepared, his delight and gratitude straightway manifested themselves in sundry praises of the gallant Captain d’Haumont and he went up to him with outstretched hand; but doubtless by an unlucky chance, at that very moment d’Haumont stooped to pick up some object, so that when he stood erect again he had forgotten de Gorbio, who was still holding out his hand, though no one thought of taking it, not even Mlle de la Boulays, who had disappeared through another door.

  CHAPTER XII

  AN URGENT MESSAGE

  CAPTAIN D’HAUMONT WENT up to his room. His mind was in so great a state of turmoil that he paid no heed to the servants who jostled him slightly as they descended quickly the front door steps at which a motor-car had stopped.

  As he was closing his window he heard M. de la Boulays’ voice greeting a new arrival.

  “How are you, my dear fellow?”

  But even this did not hold his attention although the name that was mentioned was that of one of the most celebrated political personages of the war.

  There was nothing, moreover, exceptional in the visit. M. de la Boulays’ country house stood near the crossways of the most important main roads leading to the rear of the army, and persons of the highest distinction often came to him and requested his hospitality.

  Most of them were friends of the family, or at all events acquaintances. M. de la Boulays had been in the diplomatic service for some time, and he knew personally pretty well all the great figures in the Republic.

  Captain d’Haumont neither heard nor saw, nor did he trouble himself about anything but closing his window and packing his trunks.

  As he was collecting together on the table the remaining articles which belonged to him, he picked up a photograph of Mlle, de la Boulays in her Red Cross uniform, on which was written: “To Captain Didier d’Haumont, with admiration for his bravery, from Françoise de la Boulays.”

  He gazed at it for a few moments with a look upon his face which would have told the truth to the least sophisticated if by chance such a person had been present. But the Captain had closed the door, for he liked to be certain of being alone when his secret feelings threatened, by their tyrannical craving for some outward expression, to betray him.

  How many persons take their revenge in the privacy of their own room for the restraints which they force upon themselves when they are among their fellows! And the sight which the inquisitive might behold if they entered the room in which offended pride, despised love, or any other human passion was hiding itself from society, after affecting in drawing-rooms the mask of indifference — such a sight would not be devoid of the unexpected.

  Offended pride would be seen tearing its hair and despised love cursing a thousand curses. Captain d’Haumont would have been seen putting his lips to the photograph of the beloved image, discarding it almost immediately, and finally burning it in the flame of a candle.

  He watched to the end with a feeling of pain the candle in which the beloved portrait was consumed. It seemed actually to suffer the torture which he inflicted on it, and in the gleam of the dying flame, in the last ashes, the face of Mlle, de la Boulays seemed set with a look at her inquisitor of unforgettable distress and reproach.

  Strange to say — and it bore witness once more to the connection which subsists between matter and spirit even when kept asunder by thick walls, a connection to which the middle ages saw no limits, for they practised “casting a spell” on their enemies — while Mlle de la Boulays suffered thus in her portrait she was suffering equally in her mind. And it was at the very moment when, in her drawing-room, she was acknowledging the congratulations of her friends on the news which it suited Count de Gorbio to spread abroad, that she sank in a huddled heap in a chair as if suddenly deprived of life....

  Captain d’Haumont was in his room strapping his luggage when a knock came at the door. It was M. de la Boulays’ valet, a man called Schwab, who claimed to be of Alsatian descent and whom he had never liked though he could not say why, for he never had any occasion to complain of him. But when, as in the case of Didier d’Haumont, a man has a past full of irregularities, and has been forced to keep company with all sorts of peo
ple, his perceptions become particularly acute to detect the moral weight of the more or less mysterious elements which surround him, so that Captain d’Haumont was assailed by a vague foreboding with regard to Schwab.

  The man came up to tell him that M. de la Boulays would be glad to see him in his study before his departure.

  D’Haumont went with the servant, who showed him into a room which was occupied by M. de la Boulays and the important person who had just arrived. This gentleman had been appointed to conduct a secret investigation into some startling incidents in enemy propaganda.

  Captain d’Haumont was introduced to Monsieur G — by M. de la Boulays.

  “Monsieur G — wants a reliable man for a special mission,” he said. “He came here from Paris in his car with a small staff, none of whom he can spare. It’s a matter of taking a letter to Paris to-night, and you will be put on your honor for its safety. Monsieur G — is anxious that the com mission should be carried out with great tact. Since you are taking the train to Paris this evening I consider that Monsieur G — cannot have a better ‘messenger’ than you.”

  “I am obliged to you, M. de la Boulays, for giving me the opportunity of making myself useful,” returned the Captain. “Where am I to deliver the letter?”

  “To the Hotel d’Or... at the corner of the Rue Saint Honoré and the Rue Saint Roch.”

  “I shall reach Paris at two o’clock in the morning. Must I have the person for whom it is intended disturbed then?”

  “Yes, at once. You will send him this.” And Monsieur G — scribbled a few words on his card, which he handed to d’Haumont.

  “I suggested to Monsieur G —— that you should go to Paris by car, but he prefers you to take the train as you had arranged,” said M. de la Boulays. “In point of fact, your journey to Paris must have no connection with Monsieur G— ‘s stay at my house.”

  “I understand, gentlemen. I will now take leave of you as I’ve only just about enough time to get to the station.”

  “Here’s the letter,” said Monsieur G — , holding out an envelope of medium size which bore neither name or address. But he uttered a name and said:

  “Give it into his own hands.”

  Didier slipped the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket, which he buttoned closely over his chest.

  He bowed to Monsieur G — , who shook him warmly by the hand, thanking him in words which would have made any other man proud. But the Nut’s pride now lay only in his powers of endurance.

  He set out without seeing Mlle de la Boulays again. The station was some distance from the Château, and he was driven to it in a car attached to the Medical Service. The train was late and he had to wait an hour. He stepped into an empty compartment, but at the last moment a man opened the door and took a seat facing him. He was too obsessed by his thoughts to pay the least attention to the intruder.

  The Nut was satisfied with himself. The fierce heart of the convict could beat with pride under the tunic of the soldier. Marvelous to say, not until that hour when he had made up his mind to flee from the path of happiness, had he dared to allow his thoughts to recur to the penal settlement. It was the first time that his mind could clearly and honestly and calmly revert to his past life.

  Up to that day he had turned away with horror from the accursed past and sought forgetfulness mainly in the excitement of his reckless bravery.

  Suddenly, with the awakening of love, had come the strongest temptation that could check a man in the path of regeneration. He could win this beautiful girl and lead her to the altar, and all the world would commend that union of beauty and courage. It was a splendid dream, was that marriage, and for a moment he was dazzled by it. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again he beheld under the halo which crowned the woman he loved, strange letters and figures forming a word and a number: “Cayenne, 3213.”

  And now he had said his last word. Yes, he had had the courage to go away. He had had the further courage, compared with which the first was easy, the supreme courage, to say to himself: “No woman can marry me.”

  It was a fine gesture. He might suffer beyond measure, but he could look the convict settlement in the face without a blush. And that, at all events, was something....

  It was something to be able to say to himself: “I come from prison, from that vile, ignominious place. I have been an outcast from the world, an accursed being without a name, save the name that lies in the mouths of miscreants, and they called me ‘lag,’

  ‘lifer,’

  ‘old offender.’... They called me the Nut, and now I am called Didier d’Haumont, but I... I call myself an honest man.”

  Such were the thoughts which were passing through his mind when the train arrived in Paris.

  He alighted from the carriage, carrying his bag, and hurried through the yard leading into the street, towards the only taxi which stood on the rank near the iron gates.

  At this juncture he was joined by the traveler who had entered his compartment and who, in the course of the journey, had vainly endeavored to engage him in conversation.

  “Captain, my car has been sent to the station for me. Will you allow me to drive you home?”

  Didier was on the point of accepting the offer, which seemed to come at the right moment, but suddenly, without any other reason than that of caution, which, in his case, kept him continually on the alert, he declined. He did not know this man who wished to make himself so agreeable. Didier’s motto was to be suspicious of everybody and everything.

  After thanking him, he turned again to the taxi, but he was too late, for it was already engaged and starting off. Fortunately two cabs stood on the rank.

  “Drive to the corner of the Rue Saint Roch and the Rue d’Argenteuil,” he said, not wishing to give the exact address to which he was proceeding.

  The cab turned down the Boulevard de Strasbourg at a smart pace, went along the principal boulevards, and after passing through the Avenue de l’Opéra plunged into the smaller streets. In another five minutes the Nut would be in sight of his goal.

  Suddenly there was a terrible shock and Didier and the cab were overturned. He might have been killed on the spot, but he picked himself up without a scratch and could see at a glance what had happened. A motor-car had collided so violently with the cab that the latter was shattered to pieces, the horse was ripped open and lay dying, and the driver, who was thrown into the gutter, gave no sign of life.

  Half a dozen dark forms sprang from the car and surrounded the wrecked cab. They closed upon Didier with a common impulse which left no doubt as to their intentions. But he made a rush on one side, hurling one of the dark figures to the ground, and darted off down a neighboring passage. The man started to run after him.

  Not the least dramatic part of the incident was the silence in which the pursuit was effected. Didier at one moment thought that he had put the villains off the scent, but he did not know exactly where he was. A whistle rang out behind him and other dark forms appeared under a street lamp, blocking his passage from the street.

  He retraced his steps, but at this end, too, he caught sight of suspicious figures. This time he could not escape and there would be a fight for it. He was in no sense alarmed, though his “mission” and his life were both in danger.

  As he was casting about for a corner in which to await the assault of his adversaries, his eyes encountered a sign and he read by the light of the street lamp: “Rue Saint Roch and a little farther away, painted in large letters on the iron shutters which closed the shop: “Hilaire’s Up-to-date Grocery Stores. The Old and the New World United.” A clock at that moment chimed three.

  CHAPTER XIII

  HILAIRE

  IT MIGHT BE well to hark back a few hours and discover what was taking place in the shop which was to have its brief moment of fame.

  M. Hilaire was a tradesman of good reputation in the quarter. His leanness and the singular expression of his countenance, which seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time, made o
f him a well-known figure. He was a boon companion to those whom he favored with his friendship, and a persistent card player; for he had a taste for the tap-room as well as a love of practical joking, notwithstanding that, to please his wife, he assumed the airs of a respectable tradesman.

  His wife was the dark spot in Hilaire’s otherwise fortunate existence, for Virginie was of a jealous temperament and endowed by nature with an execrable temper. Had he been free from Virginie and the competition of a provision merchant at the next corner, Hilaire would have been a perfectly happy man. It was said in the district that he had risen from nothing, but that was all to his credit.

  His enemies — the provision merchant and his wife, their customers and their circle — declared that M. Hilaire had spent a more than riotous youth and must be an ex-anarchist, for his language when he was in his cups showed little respect for the established order of society.

  On that particular night M. Hilaire was in his shop making up his books. The reason why he was not in bed was that he was waiting up for his wife, with whom he had had a stormy altercation in connection with the girl who formed his sole staff, for the two young men who were learning how to sell golden syrup and prunes had left for the war, in which, in fact, they conducted themselves like heroes, and when they returned on leave from time to time each wore stripes on his arm and medals on his breast.

  The girl in question was seventeen years of age, had dazzling teeth and a turned-up nose. She was as dark as a mole or a gypsy. Perhaps she was a gypsy. She spoke Italian. She was probably a child picked up in the streets. Hilaire did not go into these details when he engaged her. The girl bore a name which her character belied. She was called Sarah. Madame Hilaire called her Zoé.

  Now this young creature, who worked under her mistress with the will of four men and was always of an exasperating good humor, had one serious failing: she possessed a pair of magnificent black eyes which seemed to laugh at the whole world. M. Hilaire found some diversion in those two eyes, and could not look at them without a smile. It was not the same thing with Madame Hilaire. She caught her husband on more than one occasion in the act of ogling the girl. She did not like it, and the scenes which ensued were sufficient proof of it.