Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “Well, my dear, we know all about that, but still they can’t order any arrests on suspicion until the Chamber has suspended parliamentary privilege. They no longer have any proofs. Therefore the Commission will have to find or invent them — that will take a good twenty-four hours...

  “I won’t answer for anything after twenty-four hours. Hérisson has had an important interview with Cravely. It is commonly said that we shall be lodged in La Santé prison on Monday next.”

  “That is quite possible.”

  Lavobourg gave her a penetrating glance. As usual she knew more about it than he did.

  “Yes, you grasp what I mean,” she confessed, sinking her voice. “Either we shall be lodged in La Santé prison on Monday or they will be lodged there.”

  She left him gasping at the news, drugged by the incense of her personality. The best of it was that though he was aware that “it was to be on Monday” he still knew nothing of what was going to be done on Monday. No one knew — not even Sonia. Suddenly it occurred to him that since Bonchamps was dead the entire responsibility for maintaining order in the Chamber would devolve upon him, for he controlled the Republican Guard set aside for its defence, and could summon the Chamber specially in case of emergency if he thought fit. He dropped into a seat, for his limbs trembled under him. His power, suddenly glimpsed, overwhelmed him.

  Sonia had taken a few steps when Baron d’Askof went up to her. He had kept his eyes eagerly fixed on her since she came into the room. Perceiving that the Baroness had allowed herself to be caught in the toils of a lady friend, he drew Sonia behind a screen, seemingly placed there for the use of those who wished to exchange a few serious and secret words in this drawing-room made for flirtation where politics alone were discussed. And, in fact, it was of politics that the Baron first spoke.

  “Sonia, are you satisfied with your great man?”

  “Why, yes, my dear sir. What a question!”

  “Are you pleased with the turn of events?”

  “It seems to me that I am beginning to live, and I don’t forget that I owe that to you.”

  “That’s very kind of you. You haven’t forgotten that I brought Jacques here?”

  “Of course I haven’t.”

  “At a time when you were tired of everything?”

  “Yes, at a time when life never seemed so dull, so little worth living.”

  “And do you remember what you said when for the first time I ventured to speak of my love for you?”

  “Yes, I told you that I was tired of love as of everything else, and my heart would belong only to the man who would help me to fulfil a great task — a task almost beyond human power.”

  “And I answered that I would be that man. You thought I was boasting. That same evening Jacques was here. After he left I told you what I intended to do with Jacques with a woman like you to guide him.”

  “Oh, Jacques had no need of anyone,” she returned quickly, beginning to scrutinize the Baron more closely so that he moved a little to one side.

  “Jacques had no need of anyone!” he exclaimed. “Do you think so? Do you really think so?”

  She saw his face set. She had no wish to offend him, and above all to lose him at that critical moment, when Jacques more than ever needed all his supporters.

  “I tell you, dear, that Jacques is big enough to shape his course unaided, but far be it from me to forget all that you have done for him.”

  “And for you, that’s the main thing.... It is now no longer a question of Jacques, but of you and me — simply you and me.”

  While speaking these last words full of audacity and menace he took her hand, which she was careful not to withdraw, and kissed the tip of her fingers with great deference.

  “You are a big silly,” she returned, “and your declaration has taken me by surprise. I think of nothing but politics now. Let me get to know where I am amid all these events, and wait until we have won.... Why, of course, there will be plenty of time to talk about all this.”

  She rose to her feet and was surprised to observe that he was no longer looking at her, but that his eyes were turned from her and fixed with unutterable hatred on the man who had just come in — the new idol!

  “Major Jacques de Touchias!... Lieut. Frederic Héloni!” announced the manservant.

  The new-comers were at once surrounded, and while the man of the hour was being congratulated Sonia said to herself: “My goodness, they all hate him. I am the only one who cares for him.” But Jacques strode up to her, and she was all attention and smiles. Unfortunately he seemed preoccupied.

  Frederic gave the Baroness d’Askof a summary of the news in the evening papers which for some time had been favorable to Jacques. Thus these papers stated without reserve that Carlier, unable to furnish the promised proofs, had committed suicide, and that the Extreme Left, furious at the death of their leader, had bodily made a rush on Major Jacques. Moreover, they completed the tragic picture by stating that Bonchamps, overcome by so much excitement, collapsed in the President’s chair, never to recover again.

  The man announced, “Dinner is served,” and the guests filed into the dining-room.

  Strange to say the Major seemed in lively mood. He told the story with amusing details of the scene of fisticuffs in which he had such a narrow escape.

  “Oh, they might have killed you,” exclaimed Lespinasse. “Remember, you had just said that you would like to clear them out of Parliament.”

  “It seemed that Pagès is preparing a great speech for Monday,” said Jacques with a peculiar smile, “an indictment of that Republic which I spoke of banishing him from.”

  “And what reply will you make?” asked Caze boldly. “In politics Utopias begin where Kings leave off....”

  “I will meet you on Monday,” returned Jacques somewhat curtly, “and you will be able to tell me if my reply pleased you....” Then turning to Michel and Barclet, whom it was greatly to his interest to treat with consideration: “We are right, gentlemen, the Republic has been led astray from its destiny. The thing is to save it from these men and bring it back to the right path. The thing also is to effect this in such a way as to prevent it from relapsing into the same mistakes. What must we do to achieve our purpose? Add a few paragraphs to the Constitution which, on the whole, is excellent...”

  The guests around him in their surprise stopped eating to listen to him. It was the first time that he had condescended to expatiate in public on this question, and each one strove to discern what it was necessary to accept or reject to understand “the Major’s idea.” In a clear voice, at times strident and masterful, he expounded his plan for the Constitution as he saw it, powerful and operative, in which the responsibility would be vested in the head of the State as the leader of the Government. He ended a long exposition amid a chorus of admiration.

  Then he made a sign to Sonia to leave the table. He considered that they had been at dinner long enough. He had said what he wanted to say; and he knew that every word would be in the morning newspapers. Meanwhile he had no time to waste. These people no longer interested him. He bowed to the ladies and withdrew, followed by Sonia.

  As they passed through the empty drawing-room she pressed his hand.

  “Oh, my friend, she said, enveloping him with the irresistible look of love which she usually brought into play on the stage in her great dualogues, for even when she was sincere she never quite ceased to be the supreme actress, “how intensely I admire you like this. How fine you were in the Chamber. And how splendidly you spoke to them here. I think you are wonderful: you speak to soldiers like a great captain — you speak to politicians pure unvarnished politics...

  “Do you mean that?” he returned bluntly. “I imagine, Sonia, that you are not an expert in such matters. I have just spoken to them like a corporal speaks to his men. And that’s what won them, my dear.”

  “You are quite right again. It’s I who am silly...”

  “No, you are my most useful assistant. I could do nothi
ng without you.”

  “Then repay me. Give me a smile. You haven’t looked at me once this evening. Tell me that I look nice and you like my frock...”

  “You are adorable.... Good-bye.”

  “Are you coming to work to-night?”

  “Yes, I can’t fit in a moment’s rest for the next forty-eight hours. Tell d’Askof.... Oh, by the way, our poor Lavobourg seems to look as if he is giving way. Tell him to show a more cheerful countenance.”

  “My goodness, how unkind you are! You never have a pleasant word for your real friends.”

  Just then the manservant brought the Major a letter on a tray. He opened it eagerly, read it, asked for a lighted candle, and burnt it. He had become calm and smiling once more.

  “All right?” she asked.

  “Quite all right,” he returned. “My old friend General Mabel, in command of the garrison at Versailles, who has been slightly indisposed these last few days, tells me that he is now perfectly well again.”

  He turned on his heel without further words, leaving her plunged in thought. She, too, was somewhat terrified by this man, who seemed to have the gift of striking unto death those who stood in his path, and of restoring to health those of whom he stood in need.

  CHAPTER V

  LITTLE BUDDHA JUNIOR

  AT THE BACK of the Boulevard Pereire, within a stone’s throw of the railway locomotive repairing station and the fortifications, stood a cabaret which had received permission to remain open all night.

  It owed its exceptional privilege to its proximity to the repairing station where work never ceased, and the whistle of locomotives could be heard at all hours, while the sound of hammers on the anvil went up in the darkness, pierced here and there by the flashes from the fires in the forges. The tavern, of unpretentious appearance, bore the sign: Little Buddha Inn.

  The clerks who had finished work at the offices where the octroi was levied called at Little Buddha Inn for a glass and a crust on their way home. On the particular evening when we made acquaintance with some of Sonia’s guests the tavern was thronged with customers. There was considerable smoking in the room, but silence reigned. In short, it was this silence which might have seemed strange, for after all it would have been so natural for the customers to discuss among themselves the events which had staggered all Paris. But they uttered no word, worn out, apparently by the labors of the day.

  The proprietor stood behind his bar with half-closed eyes. He was a stout, sleepy-looking man.

  He was as round as a barrel, still quite young, about thirty, and his figure, his violent and cruel temper under his simple exterior, were curiously suggestive of Little Buddha, his father, famous for his association in France with the terrible Chéri-Bibi, renowned throughout the world.

  Little Buddha junior was born in a Paris prison, and his mother had brought up this scion of the gaol to admire the doughty deeds of his father, Little Buddha senior, a victim, of course, of the prejudices of society. She told him later how his father, after escaping from the penal settlement, had settled down under a false name as a publican in Dieppe, where they were to join him, but he had been murdered with some of his comrades in circumstances which were still shrouded in mystery.

  Little Buddha junior had sworn to avenge his father, but it was to no purpose that he questioned the cut-throats with whom his mother still kept up some connection. They could give him no definite information. After his mother’s death he continued to bear the name of Little Buddha as if in defiance of the community.

  The son, as we have said, had every vice of the father, but he had another in addition, which was to save him from all the others and to which he owed his position in the world. After picking up a living by opening the doors of taxis, he became a barman in low-class pot-houses. He saved his money, and might have set up business on his own account long before, but the thought of drawing on his capital made him hesitate to embark upon the smallest enterprise.

  It was then that an old fellow, whom he had observed for some time selling olives and peanuts in the night restaurants and on the open front of cabarets, entered into conversation with him and spoke of his father, whom he claimed to have known well. He told him even that he knew how he met his death, and finally promised to furnish him with the means of obtaining a fine revenge if he would agree to join a scheme about which he would give him full particulars in due course. For the time being he would only have to set up as a publican and settle in a place which was to be had for next to nothing.

  “Next to nothing! That sounds all right, but suppose I go bankrupt?”

  “You won’t go bankrupt. You will receive one hundred louis every month. And I’m the man who will pay them down to you.”

  “Shake!” exclaimed Little Buddha, holding out his hand.

  “Only you mustn’t be inquisitive,” explained the amazing peanut dealer. “And whatever you do you mustn’t pump your customers. You’ll only have to doze behind your bar.”

  “That’ll suit me.”

  “Oh, if by chance you express surprise a little too loudly at what happens in your place to friends outside, or to the police, for instance, I won’t hide from you that I wouldn’t give two sous for your skin.”

  “Whew!” said Little Buddha junior. “That’s not very comforting. Look here, in these circumstances it will have to be one hundred and fifty louis a month.”

  “I agree to your terms,” he at once returned, “because I will take a room on the first floor which you must never enter. But you must allow anyone to go into it who places on your bar beforehand an agreed number of peanuts.”

  “How many?”

  “The number will vary from day to day. Every day you will receive the pass number. Now here’s another thing — after to-day never speak to me again.”

  “How shall I know the pass number?”

  “You will see me at your place every day at one time or another. I will place on your bar the number of peanuts that callers must bring with them to pass in on that particular day.”

  “I see. What about the hundred and fifty louis?”

  “Every month I will put down on your bar a paper bag of peanuts, and you’ll find the three thousand francs inside.”

  Such were the extraordinary circumstances in which Little Buddha set up for himself as a publican. He had at first imagined that the peanut dealer was a go-between, whose business it was to discover in the cosmopolitan underworld of Paris an accommodating individual to keep one of these houses for the use of the light-fingered gentry. The room which the old fellow had taken on the first floor and furnished with a number of complicated locks, of which Little Buddha never had the key, was, in his view, to serve as a place of safety for the most debauched meetings. His astonishment was great on discovering that his cabaret was frequented only by honest workmen, railway servants, and inoffensive clerks from the octroi. Truth to tell he congratulated himself on such a piece of luck, for his money was easily earned. Never any fighting or quarrels or bad language! Better still, his customers were as good as dumb!

  As Little Buddha was contemplating the cheerful sight of his prosperous cabaret, the door was opened and a poor old man bowed down and deformed by the weight of years came in. His head was so near the ground that he seemed to be humpbacked; he was miserably clad in a suit of threadbare velvet, patched at the knees and elbows. One of his long arms held a small wooden tub divided into two compartments, one containing peanuts and the other olives.

  A cap was pulled down over his bald pate. But it was almost impossible to see his face, as much on account of his stooping posture as the large well-worn iron-grey muffler wound two or three times round his neck. Now and again he slightly raised his head, and above the muffler a big pair of tinted spectacles could be seen which might have caused fear. Strange to say all the customers that night displayed a taste for peanuts, and he portioned out to each a small packet for a few sous. On some of the tables he placed in addition two or three or five peanuts. When he reached the bar
he laid before Little Buddha seven peanuts. Then he left the cabaret.

  One night Little Buddha puzzled, impelled by a feeling of curiosity to discover what it all meant and where the amazing old man went after leaving the cabaret, broke the terms of his agreement. He sallied forth after the old fellow and followed him cautiously as he walked up the Rue de Rome. When Little Buddha reached the turning into the Rue Cardinet he was set upon by a gang of vagabonds who whipped out their knives. As luck would have it the peanut dealer came up in time to rescue him:

  “Leave him alone,” he said. “This gentleman is a friend of mine.”

  Next day Little Buddha was given an extra allowance of peanuts in a paper bag, and on the bag itself he read the carefully typewritten words:

  “Another time I shall let things take their course.”

  He acted up to the warning....

  After the peanut dealer left the cabaret some of the customers went out. Others settled down to read the paper, looking now and then at the time. At half-past two in the morning the door was opened by a man dressed as an actor, his loose-fitting cape flung back over the shoulder concealing in part his face. A soft felt hat turned down concealed the other part.

  He strode through the room, stopped a moment at the bar, placed seven peanuts before Little Buddha, and entered the pantry. Here stood a spiral staircase mounting to the floor above. The man quickly clambered up, and found himself outside a door whose three locks he proceeded to open. This done, he entered the room simply furnished with a round table, a cupboard, and several straw-bottomed chairs. On the wall was a clothes-peg.

  After lighting a small dark lantern he hung his hat and cape on the peg. Then he went over to the cupboard, opened the two leaves of the door and closed them after him. He was in the empty cupboard, the back of which opened on pressing a button. The man stooped and crept into a sort of passage, closing the aperture behind him by means of a spring with which he seemed perfectly familiar. He at once made for the end of the passage, which was extremely narrow. Here, too, he had to open a door. He passed through, closed the door, put out his dark lantern, and stretching forth his arms, switched on the light.