Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “No names, please: they don’t like that!...They come and fetch the wolf’s pence when they feel inclined. Sometimes, the pence remain in their hollow stone for a fortnight at a time...and nobody dares touch the money. Travellers go and look at it sometimes out of curiosity, on their way out and back again, before adding their own contribution...Oh, they’ve seen funny things, believe me, things which can’t be explained and which prove that the forest does whatever those beggars want it to!”

  “For instance?” asked Patrice, looking forward more confidently to the end of the journey, for, the more he saw of his fellow-passengers, the more he felt persuaded that they knew what they were about: he had watched them for some time moving among the bushes that lined the road, with an easy daring that reassured him where he sat, on the roof.

  Old Switch stood up on his box, blinked his eyes and looked at something in the distance behind him. Then he sat down again and said:

  “There, I expect it’ll be all right, to-day!...I’m just as pleased, you know!...Well, what are you staring at me like that for? Perhaps you’d like me to tell you the story of Barrois’ trunk?...”

  “Barrois’ trunk!” thought Patrice. “Why, that’s what Zoé was talking about!” And he said, aloud, “If you do, I sha’n’t regret my five francs.”

  For Patrice, without being stingy — far from it — had a thrifty mind.

  “The story’s well known in the Chevalet country,” said the other, nodding his head, “and in Cerdogne too, believe me; but the people are shy with strangers; and the story of Barrois’ trunk is one which they tell among themselves, like all the stories of the Mystery of the Black Woods, which might put things into the heads of the police, see?...And there’s no need of police. Who could do their work in the forest better than those who look after the wolf’s pence? But they’ve got to be paid, that’s only fair...Well, it’s because of somebody who not only refused to pay, but stiared to steal the wolf’s pence, that the trouble with Barrois’ trunk came about!...Yes, young gentleman.”

  “But is it a real story, which really happened?”

  “It happened just behind me, where you’re sitting, young man...on the exact spot!...Well, there, you’ve heard speak of Blondel, the man who was murdered the other day at Roubion’s?”

  Had Patrice heard speak of Blonde!...He gave his name; and the driver knew his connection with the tragic adventure of the unfortunate commercial traveller.

  “Well, this Blondel who was murdered — I don’t know by whom: it’s none of my business — had a friend on the road, like himself, who thought himself very clever and made fun of him because Blondel had told him that, each time the Chevalet people passed the Wolf Stone, they paid their wolf’s pence, to bring them luck. Blondel himself gave his half a franc like the others, when he took the Chevalet diligence, and made no secret of it either...I must tell you that, at that time, he hadn’t had any political troubles with the Three Brothers: between you and me, politics are enough to make the best of friends quarrel, aren’t they?...Well, Blondel’s friend, a certain Barrois, Désiré Barrois, started betting that he’d go past the Wolf Stone and never give his half a franc and that nothing would ever happen to him. Now this Barrois had just taken on the business of a firm at Cluse for the whole of the country-side. It was very rash of him to behave as he did, for he would often be wanting the diligence. And here’s what happened to him, true as you’re sitting there, my dear sir! — Now then, Nestor, keep quiet, can’t you? Did you ever see such a brute? Look at him! Look at him putting back his ears! You know I won’t have it; Click, clack! — The first time Barrois went past the Wolf Stone — it was on the way back from Saint-Barthelemy; they were coming down the hill and the diligence had stopped for the passengers to go and put in their pence — Barrois, seeing this, bellowed like a bull: it was a disgrace, he was in a hurry, coaches had no business to stop when going down hill and so on and so on! But he wasted his breath: the others had sent round the hat and emptied the collection in the hollow stone up there...Then Barrois climbs up to the stone and sees the treasure. There was quite twenty-five or thirty francs, which proved that the wolf hadn’t passed for quite three days. Barrois picks it all up and puts the cash in his pocket: ‘That’ll cure you,’ says he. ‘Each time I come this way, I’ll do the same. When you know that it’s I who take it, you won’t put any more in. So you’ve something to thank me for.’ The others grumbled, but, as they had done their duty, as far as they were concerned, they washed their hands of it, see?...Next day, Barrois, who had put up at the Black Sun, received a note, signed ‘The Wolf of the Black Woods,’ saying that if he didn’t put into the wolf’s hollow as many pieces of gold as he had taken out coins of all sorts, he’d smart for it! ‘...Barrois was obstinate and put in nothing; but, a little later, here’s what happened, on my word of honour: going to Mongeron, on business, he opened his trunk of samples to show his goods to the innkeeper, a big trunk which had made the journey here, where you’re sitting, sir...Well, the trunk, which was full when he put it on board, in front of all of us, at Saint-Barthelemy, was empty, oh, absolutely empty, not so much as a watch-chain left — I forgot to tell you that he travelled in watches and jewellery — and there may have been thirty thousand francs’ worth when he started! What do you say to that?...Barrois went clean off his head, for it was a mystery, a real mystery of the Black Woods...and something more than an ordinary trick of the wolf!...When Blondel heard this at the Black Sun, he began to chaff Barrois and said, Well, what did I tell you? Now, there’s nothing for it but to put your pieces of gold, as the wolf said, into the stones and put back your empty trunk on the top of the diligence: then perhaps it’ll be full again. There’s mercy for the repentant sinner!’...No sooner said than done. Next day, Barrois takes the diligence to go back to Saint-Barthelemy and puts his trunk there, where you are, and then sits down beside me. Then, when we’re near the Wolf Stone, he scrambles down and goes and leaves his gold pieces: three hundred and sixty francs in ten-franc pieces — the wolf didn’t say in his note that they must be twenty-franc pieces — after which he gets up beside me again; and, on reaching Saint-Barthelemy, we take down the trunk!...Oh, the excitement!...It was so heavy, there was no moving it; in fact, it was too heavy for jewellery...He opens it: what do you think’s inside? Stones!...The stones they break on the roads!...We’ve seen the heap from which the wolf took the stones to fill the trunk...What do you think of that for a mystery? How did the wolf know when the time had come? No one ever knew; and that’s what they call the story of Barrois’ trunk...And believe me, ever since that day, everyone has paid his wolf’s pence and never touched the money in the hollow of the Wolf Stone...Barrois’ gold coins even stayed there for more than three months, yes, sir, as an example to everybody...and then the wolf took them, like the rest...and then Barrois, who had taken to his bed, died...There’s the story of Barrois’ trunk, as I saw it happen with my own eyes, sure as I’m called Switch! And, if you ask me, I should say the wolf has watches enough to tell him the time from now till doomsday!”

  Patrice thought to himself:

  “For all that, they stole the magistrate’s watch as well!...”

  The driver would have liked to sit and enjoy the effect produced by his story, but his horses were taking up a lot of his attention, though they were going at a foot’s pace and he was not worrying them and they knew the hill. Nestor was particularly restive; and Michel flicked him over the ears with his whip.

  Patrice was still pensive:

  “Do you usually get down, when you’re going up hill?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “You and the outside passengers?”

  “Nearly always.”

  “And, those two times, when that happened with the trunk, did you all get down, on the hills?”

  “Yes, I’m sure we did, for, the second time, we chaffed Barrois when we saw that his trunk was still in its place. But, though we got down, we never lost sight of the coach and the women remained
inside. Well, nobody saw anything.”

  “Very well,” said Patrice, after turning the matter over in his mind, “very well, the trunk was taken from the top during the journey and put back without you noticing it, while you were climbing the hills. How could that have happened? There’s only one thing I can think of, which is that, in certain parts of the forest, where the trees form an arch over the diligence, somebody bent down from the top of that arch and took the trunk and put it back again a little farther on: there’s your whole miracle for you! But it would take a very clever, very strong and very active person and one who knew every inch of the forest...”

  “Oh, as for that, sir, the wolf of whom I speak has all those qualities!”

  “Mr. Switch, have you ever heard in the forest of a certain Bilbao?” asked Patrice, who, for some moments, had been thinking of the queer name mentioned by Zoé at the Vautrins’, a name which he could not remember exactly.

  “Bilbao?...Wait a bit!...Never...no, never...Bilbao?...Wait!...No, but sometimes one hears a call in the forest at dusk, near the Pierrefeu clearing — yes, I’ve heard a call something like this: Baoo!...Baaoo!...Perhaps it was Bilbao.”

  “And you’ve never seen him!” asked Patrice. “I don’t even know if he’s flesh or fish!” replied Switch.

  “Well, it may have been he who played the trick with Barrois’ trunk,” said Patrice. “And it’s he the Three Brothers are relying on to lift the contractors’ moneychest! It’s a good thing, for them that they’ve put it inside and that it’s guarded by fifteen detectives: Bilbao will have had his trouble for nothing.”

  Michel looked at Patrice as though all this was Greek to him:

  “But who is this Bilbao?” he asked.

  “He’s the accomplice of the Three Brothers!”

  The driver chuckled:

  “They’re quite smart enough to have invented that accomplice!” he said.

  Patrice was struck by these words and by the tone of conviction in which they were uttered. It was not the first time that he heard this opinion expressed. As far as he could make out, the peasantry, from Saint-Martin to the Chevalet country, were all persuaded that the Three Brothers could do without accomplices of any sort.

  Suddenly, the driver flung himself back, holding in his horses, which seemed ready to run away and were neighing madly:

  “Oh, oh!” said Michel, in a low voice. “Look out! They’re not far off now!”

  “How do you know?” asked Patrice, beginning to shake with fear.

  “Look at my horses,” said Switch. “I can’t hold them. They always behave like that when the others are near: my horses sniff as if they smelt a wild animal!...”

  Patrice, greatly alarmed by what Switch was saying, leant over the side of the coach to see what was happening on the road. The detectives, surprised at the disorderly conduct of the team, had run up beside the carriage. They too seemed impressed, as though they realized that the decisive moment was at hand and the attack about to be delivered. Perhaps they had seen or heard something. They exchanged swift words, in a low voice. Brief orders were given.

  Other figures sprang up in the twilight, in front of a bush, and gave a faint whistle, to which the people of the diligence replied. Patrice thought they were a reinforcement from the Chevalet district who must have watched the roads throughout the day.

  This fresh little band arrived without hurrying, like peasants returning home, though there was no such thing as a cottage within five or six miles.

  Patrice’ idea must have been correct, for, on coming up to the diligence, all these people mingled, in the dark. And the horses once again snorted and Switch found such difficulty in holding them that a voice from the road asked him what was the matter with the brutes to make them so very restive.

  Michel did not reply.

  At a given moment, Nestor reared and neighed and the two other horses (*) neighed in concert and gave every sign of the most intense terror. They swerved to one side and the diligence drew almost right across the road. Patrice, holding on to the hand-rail, peered at everything around, as well as the falling darkness would permit.

  (*) The usual French diligence is drawn by three horses driven abreast. — TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.

  He was overcome with a terrible sense of fear when he saw the confusion that reigned below. A group of detectives, acting on the order of one of their number, were preparing to re-enter the conveyance; the little wizened man in the cap had put out his hand to seize the bridle of Nestor, who was neighing more and more intractably, when suddenly, with an incredible wild fury, the whole team darted forward, bounding, flying along the road amid shouts and cries of despair.

  The horses carried the great jolting body of the diligence at full speed, as though it weighed no more than a feather, far, far from the detectives, who panted after it in vain and soon lost sight of it...

  Patrice thought that his last hour had come. He had the greatest difficulty in keeping his seat on the top of the coach. Clutching the iron rail, he turned to Michel.

  He saw the back of the driver sitting so still and straight and calm on his box that Patrice could not understand it, could not understand it. Michel was driving his horses on a light rein, not with the ludicrous effort of a coachman trying to master his animals and failing, but with the stately pride of a victorious competitor in an ancient chariot-race. What did it mean? What did it mean? Had Michel lost his head? And Patrice shouted:

  “Michel!...Michel!...”

  The driver turned round. It was not Michel!

  And, in fact, it was hard to tell who it was, for he wore a black mask on his face. This was the crowning terror. Incapable even of yelling out in fright, Patrice, jolted to and fro by the demon chariot, fell upon his knees.

  “Don’t move, Patrice!” said the black mask, in the voice of Blondel’s murderer.

  Patrice was bereft of the strength to make the slightest movement save those enforced upon him by the alarming bounds of the diligence. A jerk more powerful than the rest sent him rolling to the feet of that hell’s own coachman, who now was standing straight up above the runaway team. The driver must have hands of iron to make animals mad with terror keep the road at such a pace....And Patrice could see that that devil of a driver used only one hand, only one, to his three horses...where as the other...the other hand descended...descended slowly — while the driver calmly resumed his seat — descended slowly — ah, it was the same long arm at the end of which appeared the dazzling white cuff, the cuff that made that arm appear so much longer, through the little serving-hatch of the bar-room — slowly but surely the hand descended to Patrice’ throat, even as he had seen it descend to Blondel’s throat through the little aperture of the serving-hatch...

  And Patrice felt a grip of iron clutch his throat...

  And he gurgled...and his eyes almost burst from his head, from his head which was now raised to the level of the head with the black mask...

  O hideous, O hideous death-agony, during which he still had just time to shrink before the fiery glance of hatred that gleamed through the eye-holes of the black mask...

  And he heard, he could just hear, he heard a voice from under the black mask — the same voice that had murdered Blondel — ask:

  “Shall you go back to the man’s house?”

  And, as the grip round his throat was slightly released, Patrice was just able to gasp out a single word:

  “Never!”

  But this word which he gasped out to the man in the black mask was marked with such an accent of sincerity that it saved Patrice’ life. The terrible driver ceased strangling him — there was just time and the eyes veiled their terrible glitter. It even seemed to Patrice, for so far as one can realize such a thing at such a moment, that the terrible driver was chuckling, under his mask.

  In any case, what Patrice did see was that the demon driver took off his cap to him, very politely, and put it on again at once.

  Then, as the diligence slackened its pace, for the hor
ses were out of breath, and skirted the tall forest trees, the man in the mask grasped a branch, hooked himself onto it as though by magic, swung his heels, turned an astounding somersault and disappeared in the dark leafage above.

  Chapter VIII

  THE DILIGENCE STOPPED almost at once. Patrice was saved. But the heavy little portmanteau with the two hundred thousand francs was gone. There was nothing left in the coach but Patrice, half-swooning, on the top and, inside, the contractors’ agent, who, when M. de Meyrentin’s detectives at last joined the phantom diligence, had just enough strength left to tell them how he had been robbed in the simplest fashion by a gentleman in a black mask who had sprung upon him and calmly placed the muzzle of a revolver to his forehead. The agent had not had the pluck to resist him. Besides, the man had already flung the portmanteau on the road and jumped out after it.

  The clerk had hardly finished his short and distressful tale, when old Switch came running up. The driver was safe and sound. He related, with great excitement, how he had suddenly felt himself lifted from his box by an irresistible force. And, before he could say a word, he was up in the trees, in the arms of a masked gentleman, who had let him down without ceremony, but very carefully, in the road and, taking off his hat, had wished him a good journey, whereupon Switch had hurried to take a cross-road and catch the diligence at the top of the hill. As for the detectives, they were in dismay. They declared that they would never dare return to duty nor even go back to the prefecture. They were condemned to, public ridicule for all time.

  The reader will not be surprised to hear that, on learning of the failure of his expedition, M. de Meyrentin was so much upset that he was promptly laid up with jaundice. And it was while he was keeping his room that, by the irony of fate, the Three Brothers were arrested!

  The thing happened in the stupidest fashion. The most monstrous and also the most mysterious tyranny that a small district was ever doomed to undergo seemed — I say, “seemed “ — to have come to an end because two gendarmes happened to pass along the road at the moment when the Messieurs Vautrin were sending the dirty soul of Bazin the process-server to the great hereafter...Say what you will, there was nothing ill-natured about the Three Brothers; and, as long as you did not resist them, they did you no harm! But you mustn’t resist them! That fool of a process-server would have been living to this day if he had handed over his money-bag nicely and quietly. A blow is so soon given. They had not measured the consequences. And Bazin the process-server died of the blow.