Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  It was very unlucky for him that the Three Brothers were not carrying their guns that day when he met them. He would have given them anything without protest and would still be serving his writs. It was unlucky for the Vautrins too, who had to yield before the threat of the gendarmes’ revolvers without making the least show of a fight.

  The Three Brothers were sent to Riom for trial; and the proceedings were hastened. Now that they were no longer feared, everybody rose up against them and they were charged with all the crimes committed in the department during the past ten years, all the crimes that had not been brought home to their authors. The murders of Lombard, Camus and Blondel were ascribed to them, of course. And it was partly their own, doing, for they defended themselves slackly, not feeling at all sure that one of them was not the culprit and refusing at any cost to accuse one another.

  For the rest, they adopted an heroic and cynical attitude, boasting of the misdemeanours which they had committed beyond a doubt and parading their contempt for humanity in general and the government in particular. They could not forgive the government for not finding some quibble to save them from the assizes; and they loudly proclaimed that, if ever they recovered their liberty, they would not be such fools again and would vote for the King. And so they were closely watched.

  The question of an accomplice was raised at the trial. The public prosecutor would not hear of it, the presiding judge neither, both of these luminaries considering that the case was quite clear without an accomplice and both agreeing with the prisoners, who themselves swore that they had never had an accomplice.

  But M. de Meyrentin urged the other point of view. And he spoke of a certain Bilbao.

  Patrice also, who of course was called as a witness, timidly mentioned the name of Bilbao, without, however, insisting when the prosecuting counsel strongly suggested that he must have dreamt it or made some mistake.

  Zoé was called and, like her brothers, replied that she had never heard the name in her life. She would have been implicated in the charge but for the mayor, who repeatedly declared that she was employed at his house on the nights when the crimes were committed. She was left at liberty out of pity for old Barbe.

  And the Three Brothers were sentenced to death without further ado...

  But they were not yet executed...

  M. de Meyrentin remained persuaded of Bilbao’s existence; and the reader who is curious to know all that he was thinking will accompany the worthy magistrate to Saint-Martin-des-Bois, to a little road-labourer’s cottage standing on the bank of the road that runs at the back of Coriolis’ property.

  He has been there since last night, in hiding, simply waiting for M. Noël to return home...

  The reason why M. de Meyrentin did not take upon himself to contradict the public prosecutor too openly on the question of the accomplice was that, to his mind, the question was still too far from being solved.

  To-day, it is solved; at least, so he thinks.

  It is solved, thanks to his patience, thanks to a number of nights spent in the little labourer’s cottage, with one eye on the Vautrins’ cabin and the other on Coriolis’ manor-house, while the magistrate kept repeating to himself, “‘Tain’t yellow, it’s red!” which is pure slang for “It’s not gold, it’s copper!” a phrase which corresponded curiously with something at the back of M. de Meyrentin’s mind when Patrice came and reported it to him. Had the magistrate not been robbed of a watch which was not entirely free from alloy?

  How easy it now was to understand Zoé’s flight with the sock in which she had hidden the watch! Well, this watch could only have been given to her by “the man who walked with his head down,” by the mysterious accomplice.

  Zoé, therefore, was the friend of the accomplice, so much his friend that she mended his socks. It was Zoé therefore that he must keep his eye on. And he kept his eye on her, while his heart beat at the thought of what he was about to discover...

  M. de Meyrentin was inclined, for a time, to believe that the extraordinary accomplice was neither more nor less than some animal trained by the Three Brothers, hidden by them in the forest and serving them blindly in their comic or tragic enterprises. This, moreover, seemed to correspond pretty closely with what people ventured, from time to time, to reveal to him about the mysteries of the Black Woods.

  Throughout the district, the legend of destructive and bloodthirsty animals, werewolves, monsters that devoured children and cattle, had never entirely died out. At the time of the wholesale hanging of the dogs, all the peasants had agreed in contending that it was a trick of the “Pierrefeu Beast,” which did not want to have the dogs barking at it when it came walking into the village to perpetrate same villainy. M. de Meyrentin, on the other hand, at once, an learning the facts, imagined that it was a trick of the Three Brothers, who had thus rid their animal of the scent and barking of the dogs.

  But what manner of animal was it? It could barely be built simply on the lines of the famous Gévaudan Beast? (*)

  (*) The so-called bête du Gévaudan was a ferocious animal, probably a very large wolf, which appeared in the dense forests of Gévaudan, in Languedoc, about the year 1765, and whose devastations occupied the attention of France for some considerable time. — TRANSLATOR NOTE.

  M. de Meyrentin had scarcely dared reply to his own question, after a great deal of hesitation:

  “It must be a monkey!”

  For at least four hands were needed by the individual who, hanging to the roof, found means, by clinging to the top of an open door or cupbaard, to make his way into Lombard’s or Camus’ or Roubion’s premises. He would need four hands to hold on to iron supports or rails or lyre-shaped gas-brackets, with his head dawn, while strangling his unfortunate victims who were too much terrified to utter a cry!

  Lastly, it was on the top of the furniture where Patrice had discovered him that M. de Meyrentin thought he had traced the whole course taken by the murderer along the ceiling. Springing with absolute precision on his fore-hands, the marks of which had remained in the dust on the furniture, he had flung his hind-hands on the ceiling to obtain a fresh impetus; and those hind-hands were clad in socks which, in their turn, left their prints on the ceiling, the footprints of the man who walked upside down!

  The man who walked upside down was therefore a monkey!

  But Patrice had said:

  “He speaks!”

  And the whole theory had fallen to the ground, all the more so as M. de Meyrentin could not conceal from himself the difficulty of having his monkey version accepted, short of producing the monkey in a cage in the public prosecutor’s office at Belle-Étable!...

  He looked upon all these inferences as admirable in principle, but so exceptional in practice that he dared not state them plainly to a soul. And he himself put them on one side, to hunt about nearer at hand, among mankind, for the exceptional sort of acrobat who could take the place of the monkey in his mind.

  Meanwhile, to keep a watch on Zoé, he hit upon devices worthy of a Red Indian. But Zoé went hardly anywhere, except to Coriolis’, and home again. She was seen now and then with M. Noël, Coriolis’ man-servant, a tall, quiet fellow who ran his master’s errands, without loitering to talk to the village-gossips, and who took off his hat politely to the people in the street. This M. Noël was also the only person who sometimes crossed the Vautrins’ threshold, no doubt out of charity for old Barbe, now that her sons were sentenced to death.

  Well, one day M. Noël appeared to have been in the forest, for, on the skirt of it, he met Zoé leaving Coriolis’ place; and M. de Meyrentin, who was in his little cottage, clearly heard Zoé say to M. Noël:

  “Madeleine’s been asking for you, Balaoo!”

  Balaoo!...Bilbao!...

  A great light, a first-class illumination blazed up in the examining-magistrate’s heated brain!...He reflected that Noël had been brought from the Far East: what nimbler, more active, more acrobatic person could you hope to find than a Chinese or Japanese?...

&nbs
p; One day, the magistrate was lucky enough to discover some prints left by M. Noël’s shoes and corresponding exactly with the prints of soles which he had found on Lombard’s roof, near the chimney, in the soot — on the lot where the murderer, no doubt, had gone to put on his shoes after the crime — and corresponding also, as far as possible, with the footprints on the ceiling&helli...

  There was no doubt left...

  Ah, Noël, with his sly, melancholy airs: what an impostor! Coriolis must be as ignorant of M. Noël’s crimes as Patrice himself. And Patrice, on his side, could know nothingof the hatred with which he had inspired M. Noël.

  Well, M. de Meyrentin would deliver all those people from a danger. He would make a scoop which would very much annoy Mr. Public Prosecutor, but which would cover him, M. de Meyrentin, with glory: he would arrest the accomplice of the Three Brothers...

  He remained two days at Belle-Etable, to make all his preparations, without a word to a soul, and returned to Saint-Martin, accompanied by two gendarmes who were to await his orders, at the corner of the forest and the Riom Road.

  And he went off to ensconce himself, for the last time, in his labourer’s cottage, waiting until he was sure that M. Noël was at Coriolus’ before performing his duty as a magistrate.

  Now M. Noël did not give a sign of life. And it was beginning to grow dark.

  Perhaps Noël had not left the manor-house.

  M. de Meyrentin walked out of his cottage and deliberately went and rang the bell of the little door that opened on the woods.

  Coriolis came and opened the door himself.

  “M. Noël, if you please,” said the magistrate, raising his hat.

  “Come in, M. de Meyrentin,” said Coriolus, crimson in the face.

  And he closed the door.

  BOOK THE SECOND — BALAOO HAS THE TIME OF HIS LIFE

  Chapter IX

  WHEN BALAOO APPEARED on the edge of the forest, the autumn sun, which was setting behind the little village of Saint-Martin-des-Bois, sent its last rays shooting down upon him. And Balaoo, dazzled, immediately went back under wood, to wait until it was quite dark, for he would have done anything rather than face a member of the Human Race in his tattered overcoat and his torn trousers.

  Not to mention that he had lost his hat. This careless attire and the job which he had just pulled off at Riom led him to avoid the high-road and to look askance upon the passers-by. He sat down quietly in the middle of a thicket and leant against the trunk of a beech to put on his boots, which he usually took off when he was going through the forest and sure of not meeting any of the Race.

  The fact was that he had been taught never to attract attention either by his get-up or by his wild-man’s gestures. Since he had had explained to him what a pithecanthrope (*) was, he accentuated the gentleness and shyness of his manners, for he wished on no account to be confused with a member of the monkey race, who are so rude and ill-bred. It was quite bad enough to be taken, because of his almond eyes, his slightly flattened nose and his face with the broad flat surfaces, for a native of Hal-Nan, whom Dr. Coriolis, who had been French consul at Batavia, had brought back from his travels and taken into his service as his gardener.

  (*) From the Greek pithekos, ape, and anthropos, man: an animal half way between a monkey and a man and marking as it were the transition between the former and the latter. Scientists, including Gabriel de Mortillet in the first place, have discovered in the tertiary strata the traces and the fossilized remains of these intelligent animals, as well as the proofs of their intelligence. Others, relying on traveller’s tales, declare that this species of ape still exists and that a few specimens can be found in the depths of the forests of Java. Dr. Coriolis is not the only one who has hunted for them there. — AUTHOR’S NOTE.

  So Balaoo put on his boots. As he found some difficulty in forcing in his hind-hands — for Balaoo could say what he liked: pithecanthrope though he was, he had more of the monkey than the man about him, since he had four hands, which is the obvious characteristic of the quadrumana — he heaved slight sighs, in other words, he gave forth growls which the inhabitants of Saint-Martin-des-Bois had more than once taken for the premonitory sounds of a storm.

  Moreover, it was one of his favourite amusements to imitate the thunder with his reverberating, rolling voice, when far away from men, to frighten them. He distinctly remembered seeing his father and mother filling the whole family — his little brothers, his little sisters, his old aunt and him, Balaoo — with unspeakable delight by striking their chests, down yonder, in the heart of the Forest of Bandong, not so very far from the bamboo villages built hanging over the swamps. They thumped their chests like men-singers about to raise their voice; and they brought forth the thunder. Oh, it was quick work! Hidden behind the mangroves, they at once saw the bravest members of the Human Race, even the very Dyaks, who are armed with bows and arrows, run like water-rats in search of a shelter, of a well-fortified kampong, behind which they heard them call upon Patti Palang Kaing, the king of the animals, himself. What fun they had in those days! Balaoo had his boots on. He reflected that, now, when he mimicked the voice of the thunder, he was scolded on returning home. And there was cause for it, no doubt; for, after all, he ran the risk that, one fine day, it would be discovered that the thunder was he! And his master had told him flatly that he would not answer for the consequences. The members of the Human Race, if they found Balaoo out, would treat him like a gorilla or a common gibbon. He would be popped into a cage...and a good job too! He had better bear that in mind.

  What he had in mind at the moment was the stroke of work which he had done at Riom. And, when, by the last glimmer of daylight, he saw two gendarmes pass along the road, the short hairs on the top of his head stood up and began to move swiftly to and fro, an unmistakable sign of terror...or of rage.

  He considered that the gendarmes did not go away quick enough. He was late: he had been away two days. He wished himself home again. What would his master and Mlle. Madeleine say? He could hear their reproaches now: they had had to look for him, to call after him in the forest. All the same, before he went in, he must go and tell Zoé of the stroke of work which he had done at Riom.

  The road was free. He crossed it at a bound and ran across the fields to the cabin of the Three Brothers Vautrin.

  It stood midway between the forest and the village, all by itself, on the roadside, with a screen of poplars behind it. It consisted of but one floor, covered with a thatched roof, from which rose a single chimney sending its smoke straight up into the peaceful evening. There was no light at the window. When he opened the door, a figure sitting huddled in the chimney-corner asked:

  “Who’s there?” He replied:

  “It’s I, Noël.”

  Balaoo’s voice was both dull and guttural, rasping out the syllables low down in the throat. Bottles and bottles of syrup had been used up in the effort to “humanize” that voice. It was a little painful, a little startling, but not unpleasant to listen to. And, even with that voice, as he possessed the genius of mimicry, he managed to imitate a number of other voices and to excite sympathy for an incurable sore throat. When he tried to soften it, when speaking to young ladies, it produced a queer piping sound which roused laughter; and he hated that. He went about saying that he owed that curious lack of control over his vocal organs to the excessive use of betel in his youth; but, of course, he had given up chewing since he entered the service of his kind master, Dr. Coriolis!

  “It’s I, Noël.”

  The figure in the chimney-corner rose and another dark figure, in a recess in the wall, sat up on end. Mother Vautrin, the old paralyzed woman, and little Zoé looked at him with questioning eyes.

  Zoé struck a match. Balaoo knocked it out of her hand and put his foot on the burning wood. He said there were gendarmes on the road and he did not want to be seen in the cabin. The old mother moaned in her dark corner; and the breath rattled in her throat, for she was very ill; but the first words uttered by Balao
o gave her relief:

  “They will be here, in a cart, at eleven o’clock tonight...Have everything ready...”

  Zoé was on her knees, kissing the pithecanthrope’s boots:

  “Have you saved them, Noël?...Have you seen them?...Are they coming, all three of them?”

  And she named them, to make sure that not one would be missing: “Siméon? Élie? Hubert?”

  Balaoo growled:

  “Yes, Siméon, Élie and Hubert!”

  “You’ve done it, Noël, you’ve done it?”

  She continued to drag herself at his feet, but he pushed her away with his heel. The girl irritated him: when brothers were at liberty, she was always complaining about being beaten; and, now that she heard that they had been rescued from prison, she was licking his boots for joy.

  “Quick!” he said. “Let me get back. What will they say to me at home?”

  The child burst into tears:

  “Mlle. Madeleine has been looking for you all day. She went all over the forest calling out, ‘Balaoo!...Balaoo!...Balaoo!...’”

  “Oh, bad luck!” said Balaoo, giving himself a great blow, on the chest, which resounded like a gong.

  And he left without even taking leave of the old woman, so great was his hurry to get away.

  Once outside, he sniffed the air. It no longer smelt of gendarmes. He went through the vineyard, by a path which he knew well, from taking it a hundred times when he had leapt his master’s wall to fetch the Vautrins and go with them in search of adventures or to have “a rare old spree” in the forest. And he at once reached the back of the Coriolis estate, by the little door opening on the woods. He carefully sniffed the path leading to the station, but it did not smell of railway-passengers. Then, trembling, he gave a tug at the bell. It tinkled so loudly that Balaoo almost fainted.