“Yes, a necessary accident.”
“Oh!” groaned Jacques, clutching the butt-end of his revolver.
“Would you like me to recall the many fortunate accidents in your brilliant career?” asked Chéri-Bibi, walking round Jacques as if to exasperate him still further until he either confessed himself beaten or made an end of Chéri-Bibi.
“I know all about these ‘accidents,’” he went on, “because I was at once your guardian angel, the chief of your detective service, your minister of justice, your hangman and your scavenger. You have no cause to complain. I ask you in return either to take advantage of these ‘accidents’ or kill me. That is a simple and definite proposal easily carried out.... I have done my work and I am ready to disappear.... You will never see me again. But if as a result of to-night’s little affair you must, like a simpleton, send in your resignation and give up the game after it has been won, then kill me I entreat you.”
Subdamoun laid his revolver on the table, sat down, took a sheet of paper and began to write.
Chéri-Bibi drew nearer. Subdamoun thought that he was about to seize the revolver. He made no attempt to prevent him. He was on the brink of the abyss. Now that he had heard the truth he asked only to be hurled into its depths.
He believed in righteousness. A man had come to him and said: “Your righteousness is built up on my crimes.” Therefore he, too, asked only to die. Truth to tell he was a good fellow, a brave soldier, but not a great leader of men.
Chéri-Bibi looked over his shoulder and watched him as he wrote. With his huge paw he checked his hand as he was about to add his signature.
“Are you going to send in your resignation as President of the National Assembly? Are you going to tell the nation that you are retiring from public life? Why should you?”
Subdamoun rose to his feet.
“Because I will not be the child of your handiwork.”
“Nothing can now prevent it.”
“I renounce the heritage and in proof of that you must die.”
“You will avenge your victims,” sneered Chéri-Bibi, folding his arms and standing erect, impassive before him.
Subdamoun picked up his revolver.
“I shall shoot you simply because you murdered my two grandfathers....”
But a hand interposed. It was the Marchioness, who had come in with the look of a madwoman and in her pallor seemed as if she were already about to descend to the tomb.
“Don’t kill him — he is your father!”
Chéri-Bibi uttered a stifled exclamation. The Marchioness broke into mad laughter.
Subdamoun shot himself in the head.
EPILOGUE
FORTUNATELY the wound was not fatal, and the adventure as a whole ended more satisfactorily than might have been expected from the tragic events related in the last chapters.
The skill with which Chéri-Bibi adjusted every difficulty contributed in no small degree to make life endurable to the sorely tried de Touchais family.
Subdamoun’s letter of resignation was sent to the National Assembly through the agency of the peanut dealer himself, who with a heavy heart gave up all hope of political fame for his son. The de Touchais mansion was closed, but that was an incident that caused no surprise seeing that Subdamoun had declared his intention of retiring from public life to enjoy a well-earned rest.
He was moreover, lauded to the skies and more than ever looked upon as a great figure. His conduct was compared to that of Cincinnatus, who after saving his country laid down his dictatorship to return to his farm.
But, truth to tell, if his disappearance from the scene caused rejoicing it was first because his popularity was so great that some feared lest he should monopolize all power, and secondly because others who knew him best judged him on his real merits which were not, as a section of the public would have fain believed, transcendent. His great courage as a citizen and a soldier had for the time being created the illusion that he was another “little corporal” returned from Egypt.
In reality he was no politician. He affected to have a great contempt for accidental circumstances, and yet he allowed himself to be mastered by them. He endeavored to appear hard and unfeeling, but at heart he was a sentimentalist. He was made to carry a redoubt and to lose his heart. He was unable to resist the beautiful Sonia, and his weakness precipitated disaster, but he had the good sense in the end to choose an honest wife, and it was this commonplace happening that saved him.
When he recovered from the scalp wound inflicted by his own hand he beheld only the white arms of Mlle de la Morlière. Poor Cecily, who had more than once during her chequered life all but lost her reason, again escaped this disaster on seeing her son, who she believed was dead, restored to health again. It was an event that was bound to wipe out the memories of the past.
They all rose with new strength of mind and an ardent longing for peace and happiness in the oblivion of the country in some corner of France unknown to the world and politics such as may still be found in the more remote provinces.
* * * * * * *
Two months have sped by since the events recorded in the last chapter.
On the saloon deck of a magnificent liner which had just set sail from Havre for the West Indies two passengers were seated in deck-chairs exchanging a few words before retiring to the luxurious cabins which Chéri-Bibi had engaged in order to render the voyage more agreeable to his friend the Dodger.
“We are no longer young men, my dear Hilaire,” he said. “Certainly as far as I am concerned I still feel bubbling over with almost superhuman life and energy, and I know that you have plenty of ‘pep’ in you, but now that we are on our way to America and I have no fear of awakening regrets that might have kept you in France I shall not be sorry to hear the real reasons that induced you to leave the paradise of the ‘Up-to-date Grocery Stores’ to follow the fortunes of your old friend Chéri-Bibi, the Marquis, in some new hell upon earth.
“Tut tut!” said M. Hilaire after coughing to hide him embarrassment. “There can’t be any better reason for my conduct than the friendship that I have always felt for you.”
“But that doesn’t do away with the fact that you left me in the lurch on the day when I made a last urgent appeal for your unbounded devotion!” returned Chéri-Bibi.
“I will say again, monsieur le Marquis, that it was remorse for my unpardonable cowardice on that day which has led me to give up everything for you just as it made me haste to join you in the Morlières’ house by way of the underground passage, though I failed to arrive until the whole thing was over.”
“And it ended very badly,” growled Chéri-Bibi. “Had you turned up sooner I should have been able to get rid of the mortal remains of the noble Baroness and dear Little Buddha and clear out myself without being seen by that son of mine, Subdamoun. To think of that young muff indulging in the luxury of shooting himself because he learnt that I was his father! Isn’t it enough to disgust one with working for one’s children?...
“Oh, I was still capable of one honest sentiment — the feelings of a father, and the whole thing has estranged me, I can tell you. But by what light from above, by what revelation of a divine but cruel Providence, I should like to know, was Cecily able to suspect that Chéri-Bibi and the Marquis de Touchais were in days gone by one and the same person? Had it not been for that revelation I should have been done for.”
“Yes,” agreed the Dodger, “seeing that you were silly enough, saving your presence, not to stop him. It was indeed the will of Providence. Let us bow once more to Providence, which was pleased to direct our footsteps. We are but wisps of straw in its hands! For my part I believe that the Marchioness was able to recognize you by certain intonations in your voice which must have recalled to her mind some unforgettable moments of the past.”
Thus spoke M. Hilaire, who was very careful not to disclose to Chéri-Bibi that he was the medium of that Providence which sprang so glibly to his lips, for he would not on any account have confessed th
at he had reached the house in time to see Chéri-Bibi enter Subdamoun’s study with Subdamoun following, revolver in hand. M. Hilaire had at once grasped that something untoward was about to happen, for he felt sure that Chéri-Bibi would make no attempt to defend himself.
Consequently he had resolved to divulge to the Marchioness the frightful secret, the infernal mystery of the duality and unity of the Marquis and Chéri-Bibi, as the only means of averting patricide.
Chéri-Bibi’s life, therefore, had been saved, but since as a result of M. Hilaire’s bold initiative Subdamoun had attempted to commit suicide and the Marchioness had nearly lost her reason he was by no means eager to make a boast about it.
Moreover, it was not only on this point that he had concealed the truth. When he declared that he was impelled to accompany Chéri-Bibi to America because of his deep friendship for him and his remorse for refusing to lend his assistance, he was lying.
In the end he gave the real reason without appearing to attach any particular importance to it.
“I shall never forget,” went on M. Hilaire after a silence, “the sweet tones in which you used to speak to the Marchioness. When you uttered the word ‘Cecily’ you spoke volumes. Certainly yours was a model household. I cannot say as much for mine. Life in my house became an inferno.”
“What are you trying to tell me, M. Hilaire? The last time you spoke of Mme Hilaire it was with tears in your voice. You were inconsolable over your loss.”
“It was because I thought she was gone.”
“Then is she still alive?”
“The truth is that on the day when I last spoke of her I thoroughly believed that I should never see her again. The half-charred boot and ‘bun’ of hair that I discovered made me weep over what I assumed was her tragic fate, and I was returning sorrowfully through the Rue de Roi d’Italie to the ‘Up-to-date Grocery Stores’ a little after nine o’clock that night when I observed coming towards me with outstretched hands and a smile on their faces — you will never guess to whom I refer — my good friends Barkimel and Florent.
“‘Hullo!’ I exclaimed, ‘have you come to life again? Look here, we must have a drink at my place to celebrate this happy meeting.’
“So we made our way to my stores and meantime they told me how they escaped the guillotine and how carefully they kept in the background until quiet was restored. Suddenly M. Florent said:
“‘Our first thought on returning to this neighborhood was to call on you, in spite of the lateness of the hour. Your shop-front was down but the door was still ajar. But we didn’t care to go in because of Mme Hilaire....’
“‘That’s very good of you,’ I said. ‘Of course, I am very sorry she lost her life but that need not prevent us from having a drink together.’
“Barkimel and Florent stared at me as if they thought I was mad.
“‘Bah! the things you say! But you always did love your little joke. Mme Hilaire has never looked better.... She fills the cash desk!’
“‘What do you say?’
“‘What’s the matter?’
“I was no longer listening to them. I ran straight off to the stores and cautiously glanced through a chink in the door, and as a matter of fact saw Mme Hilaire looming formidable behind the cash desk vigorously expressing to the shopman in charge her annoyance with me for still continuing my bad habits.
“‘He ought to be ashamed to be out at this time of night,’ she said.
“Great heavens, monsieur le Marquis, that is the very thing I said to myself. I was ashamed to be out at that time of night — so thoroughly ashamed that I didn’t go home at all!”
“You are a bad husband,” returned Chéri-Bibi, smiling broadly behind his tinted spectacles. “A bad husband! I see everything now. It is to escape the conjugal hearth, M. Hilaire, that you are good enough to accompany me to the other end of the world.”
“If I only knew what we are going to do when we get there!” M. Hilaire ventured to say to change the conversation.
“Well, I will tell you that, M. Hilaire, notwithstanding the great contempt that your matrimonial conduct arouses in me. After what has occurred in France I begin to feel disgusted with Republics. I know that in distant lands they need an Emperor. What would you say to Chéri-Bibi — Emperor?”
“I should say that there is no dignity that Chéri-Bibi may not aspire to,” returned M. Hilaire with enthusiasm.
THE END
Other Novels
The headquarters of ‘Le Matin’, a daily Parisian newspaper first published in 1884 and discontinued in 1944, pictured here in 1890 — Leroux began working as an international correspondent in the 1890’s and he covered the 1905 Russian Revolution. He left journalism in 1907 to launch a career in writing fiction.
The Man with the Black Feather (1903)
Translated Edgar Jepson, 1912
Original French Title: ‘La double vie de Théophraste Longuet’
The Black Feather of the title is a reference to a genetic phenomenon that is used in the story to illustrate the inheritance of certain traits across the generations. The story is told in the first person by a journalist for the Morning Journal, who is given a mysterious locked wooden box by a melancholic stranger named Adolphe Lecamus. The stranger is the executor of the estate of one M. Théophraste Longuet, a man known to him, but the deceased has left no word of what the box contains and no key for it either. Once the box is opened, it reveals a collection of memoirs that relate an astonishing connection between the deceased and one of France’s master criminals; it is from here that the reader is led into the story that the memoir holds.
Longuet is a newly retired Parisian, who has had little time for anything, but his business in past years and who now wishes, with the help of his more urbane friend, Lecamus, to learn more of culture and the arts. He has made a start by touring the architectural gems of his home city: “now is the time for me to educate myself.” He and his friends begin a tour of the Gothic palace, the Conciergerie, an enjoyable and informative visit, but as they approach the entrance to some little used underground passages, a strange ‘presence’ overcomes Longuet and he speaks and acts in an archaic manner, to the consternation of his companions. Longuet is a pragmatic man, not given to fanciful notions and rather scathing of all things esoteric, but even he could find no logical explanation for the strange events of that afternoon. By his own account, he feels these strange phrases emanate from himself, but is not aware that he actually speaks them. Then, he feels compelled to scrape at the stone wall with his pocket knife, to reveal a note written many moons ago…but in his own handwriting! The note reads:
‘Dead and buried all his treasures after the Treachery of April 1st. Go, take a look in the barroom! Look at the furnace! Look at the weathercock! Dig a while and you shall be rich!’
Stunned by the discovery, Longuet decides to quietly research the matter himself. He takes the note from the Conciergerie and another example of his own handwriting, to a professor who has expertise in graphology and asks for a comparison. There can be no doubt – the handwriting is by one and the same person and furthermore, the Conciergerie document is genuine eighteenth century paper, dating to 1721. More and more it appears that Longuet has a ‘spiritual’ double in that century, a man of importance or notoriety, who has hidden some treasure and to which Longuet decides he is now entitled. Longuet throws himself into historical research, attempting to identify this mysterious ‘ancestor’. Can this be an example of the transmigration of souls, or reincarnation, that Longuet is one and the same spirit as a long dead man? More evidence points to this, when at the wedding anniversary party for the Longuets, he is overtaken once again by this strange personality and begins to act and speak as a self assured man of times gone by, frightening the female guests with his aggressive flirting and singing of lewd ballads.
Having witnessed this second manifestation, Lecamus joins his friend Longuet in the search for answers. He quotes Darwin’s theory of evolution, pointing out how tra
its can reappear in a descendant many generations after the original carrier of them dies. Perhaps what is happening to Longuet is an accident of genetics, rather than reincarnation? He refers to Longuet’s alter ego as ‘The Other’.
There follows a worrying development – it appears that when taken over by his ‘Other’, Longuet has been rifling the pockets of his friends, taking watches, cheques, handkerchiefs and other personal items. He then recalls a dream in which he kills and dismembers a woman named Marie-Antoinette and deposits her remains in the river. More and more, Longuet is acting as this other person, whose violence of speech and deed is completely at odds with his own. If the ‘Other’ takes him over completely, where will it all end?
A well written tale with good pace and easy to follow, this story has all the elements of a good early twentieth century mystery. Indeed, as a story it is much easier to follow than Leroux’s detective stories, which tend to be over populated with characters and turns of the plot. Here, the characters are fewer and their personalities well drawn and engaging, showing that Leroux has the capacity to be a teller of strong stories, when he keeps to a straightforward narrative.
The original frontispiece: ‘In horror I recognised my own handwriting’
CONTENTS
HISTORICAL PREFACE. THE SANDALWOOD BOX
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 238