Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  M. Jules, the mayor, of course, could not take this insult lying down; he did his best to pass it off by saying that, if anyone had the right to boast that he had brought the truth to light, it was good old Dr. Honorat. Ah, there was one who had spoken out! And said useful things too! He had supplied the proof of the murders by speaking of the rope with which the men were hanged.

  “Agreed,” retorted Mme. Valentin, the local lady who had had that adventure with the cavalry-officer, “agreed; but, as M. le Vicomte de la Terrenoire” — the officer in question— “said at the trial, considering that Dr. Honorat examined the bodies in the commissary’s presence, why did he not then call the attention of the police to the kind of rope with which the men had been hanged and which he thought that he had already noticed at the Vautrins’ on the day when he was called in to attend Zoé?” And she concluded, “If Dr. Honorat was more useful than anybody afterwards, he was more prudent than all rest of us before!”

  To this, Mme. Jules, the mayoress, replied:

  “He had the right to be, or, at least, he had every excuse. Dr. Honorat drives along the roads, night and day, all alone in his gig; and an accident is easily met with. What could he have done against those three ruffians?”

  “He preferred to nurse them,” hissed long, lean Mme. Sagnier, the lady with the false pearls, between her teeth. “It was he got them sentenced to death,” resumed the mayor, in an authoritative tone, “and, I repeat, he showed courage in doing so, for, as long as I live, I shall never forget Siméon jumping up from his seat in the dock, shaking his fist at Dr. Honorat and shouting, ‘You’d better mind yourself, for, if ever I get out of this, my first visit will be paid to you!’ It was enough to give one the shivers. Well, Dr. Honorat did not turn a hair. He’s a brave man, I tell you.”

  The two others raised their voices in protest:

  “And what about us, weren’t we threatened? Élie and Hubert said to us, ‘You are liars; and, the next we meet you, we’ll break your heads.’ Those are the very words.”

  “I had to keep my bed for a fortnight after,” declared Mme. Valentin.”

  “So had I,” said Mme. Sagnier.

  There was an embarassed silence, which was interrupted by fat Mme. Roubion, who went round among the company with her bowls of mulled wine:

  “That’s not the point,” she said. “What’s the use of arguing, now that their business is settled? When are their heads to be cut off? They ought to have been cut off here; but, as the thing’s arranged to take place at Riom, has monsieur le maire thought of engaging a window?”

  “Look here,” said M. Jules, roughly, “I’d rather talk about something else...”

  And, for the next five minutes, they talked about nothing at all. Everybody sat steeped in thought and one and all had the same thought: they would not be really easy in their minds until the Three Brothers were dead and buried. There was only one fear, that the President of the Republic might commute the sentence of one of them; and, after all, people had been known to escape from prison. You never could tell...

  Mme. Roubion made a fresh effort to dispel the figures of the Vautrins:

  “You know Mlle. Madeleine Coriolis is to be married soon?” she said.

  “Oh, nonsense!” said Mme. Valentin. “To whom?”

  “Why, to M. Patrice Saint-Aubin, her cousin from Clermont.”

  “There was a rumour of it,” said Mme. Sagnier, “but they have lots of time before them. He is quite young still.”

  “Quite young?”

  “He’s twenty-four,” said Mme. Roubion, “and he has just passed as a solicitor. His father is anxious to make over his practice to him. He wants to see his son fixed up and married and settled behind his papers in the Rue de l’Écu before his death, for the old gentleman does not think that he has long to live.”

  “He’s right there,” declared the chemist. “You can’t be too careful. One never knows who’s going to live and who’s going to die.”

  “They say the Saint Aubin boy is rich enough for two,” said Mme. Valentin. “Has little Madeleine any money?” All the company were of opinion that she had not. Dr. Coriolis, an old eccentric, who used to be consul at Batavia, might have made his fortune in the Malay Archipelago, but the general view was that he had returned from the Far East with nothing but a fatal passion for the bread-plant, which had made away with his last shilling. Did anyone ever hear of such madness? To try and make a single plant take the place of bread, milk, butter, cream, asparagus and even Brussels sprouts, which he pretended that he was able to make out of the waste! And for years he had been living with his hobby, at the bottom of his immense garden surrounded by tall walls behind which he lived in a state of almost complete isolation, seeing nobody and refusing to be assisted by any one except his gardener, a boy whom he had brought with him from the East and who seemed greatly devoted to him. He was a very nice young fellow, that Noël, that they must say: a little shy, never talking to anybody, but always bowing to everyone most politely. When he crossed the street; for his master sometimes sent him on an errand, he nearly always carried his hat in his hand, as though he lived in fear of “offending somebody.”

  “He’s not what you would call good-looking,” said M. Roubion.

  “He’s not ugly either” said Mme. Valentin. “Only, he’s rather flat-faced.” “He’s like all the Chinese,” said Mme. Roubion, pedantically, having seen “Celestials,” as she called the inhabitants of the Celestial Empire, at the Exhibition of 1878. “They are not handsome, but they look very intelligent and not the least bit ill-natured. My opinion is that he’s a Celestial.”

  And Mme. Jules summed up the general view on Noël by asserting that “he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  In the summer dining-room, the needlewomen, seated around the Empress’ gown, ceased to listen to the ladies’ and gentlemen’s conversation as soon as they had finished talking about the Three Brothers. These alone had the gift of interesting Mme. Toussaint, Mlle. Franchet, Mme. Boche and Mme. Mûre, though on this subject the good women were inexhaustible, always finding new things to say and even repeating the old things over and over again, without ever wearying. They were fellows who were not satisfied with being highway robbers, said one, but who did wrong for its own sake, in other words, for their pleasure. Mme. Boche told how she had nearly died of fright, last year, one evening when she was closing the shutters of the little shop where she dealt in groceries, haberdashery, deal boards, laths and coals. She maintained that one of the Vautrins had hidden on the roof of her house — Mme. Boche’s roof almost touched the ground — and snatched off her cap and wig. She was almost sure that she had recognized Élie, unless it was Siméon, unless it was Hubert, but it was certainly one of the Three Brothers, who, when they were not murdering people on the roads, spent their time frightening old women. Oh, the Vautrins had broad backs! Mme. Mûre shed tears over the decease of a poodle which met its death in a very curious way, one evening when it was barking too loudly at the heels of the Vautrins, who were preparing some trick. It suddenly ceased barking. Mme. Mûre went out into the yard and found her dog hanging from the rope of the well. This suicide, which was at least as difficult to explain as Camus’ and Lombard’s, had been as it were a signal for the suicide of all the dogs in the village at that time. It was a regular epidemic. The dogs were all found hanging from the well ropes, So much so that, since then, Saint-Martin-des-Bois had given up keeping dogs.

  Mme. Toussaint shook her fat chops and her flabby chin under her mob-cap:

  “And, then, if they had only been satisfied with the dogs!” she said. “Those wretches need not have thrown my little cat Mirette into the pond, with a stone round her neck, for us to know them for savages. Their reputation was made!”

  In short, “life had become a hell;” but, since “they” had been in prison, people had recovered their peace of mind to some extent and the old ladies of Saint-Martin were once more beginning to enjoy life.

  It was at that moment, just
as the several visitors at the Black Sun were expressing their contentment with a state of quiet to which they had long been unaccustomed that a mad sound of galloping was heard on the rough cobbles of the Rue Neuve. This galloping was accompanied by the noise of a light vehicle, a noise which could only belong to Dr. Honorat’s gig. Everybody recognized it; and the proof was that everybody cried:

  “There’s Dr. Honorat!”

  But what had happened? Why that din? Why that hurry? Had his horse taken the bit between its teeth and run away? Had the doctor dropped the reins?

  Mlle. Franchet cried:

  “Perhaps he’s been murdered!”

  But everyone was at once reassured, at least in so far as Dr. Honorat’s existence was concerned, for he was heard shouting, in a hoarse voice:

  “Open the door!...Open the door quickly!...”

  M. Jules, the mayor, M. Roubion, M. Sagnier and M. Valentin drew their revolvers, without which they had not sallied forth for many a long day; and the ladies, seeing their husbands produce those lethal weapons, began to tremble and were unable to utter a word.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Roubion, putting his ear to the door.

  “Open the door, can’t you? It’s I, Dr. Honorat! Let me in, Roubion, let me in!”

  “Are you alone?” asked Roubion, prudently.

  “Yes, yes, I’m alone, let me in!”

  “You can’t keep the doctor standing at the door,” Mme. Roubion declared. “Let him in.”

  Everybody at once fell back, while the needlewomen, leaving their work, gathered anxiously in the doorway between the bar-room and the summer dining-room.

  Roubion opened the door.

  Dr. Honorat, who had fastened his panting horse to the ring in the wall, burst into the room like a whirl-wind. Roubion bolted the door behind him and all clustered round the doctor, who had promptly sunk into a chair. He was deathly pale. He was hardly able to speak. His eyes were wild and staring. He managed to groan:

  “The Vautrins!...The Vautrins!...”

  “What about them?...What about the Vautrins?...”

  “The Vautrins are here!...”

  Everybody shrieked. Fear sent its gust of madness over them, flinging up their arms in meaningless gestures, tossing the company this way and that way, making them writhe and twist as though they had all suddenly lost their mental balance:

  “Eh?...What?...Where?...The Vautrins?...What’s he talking about?...The man must be mad!...Where did you see them?...”

  “At their own place!” gasped the doctor. “At their own place!...In their house!...”

  “He’s been dreaming!...He must have been dreaming!...”

  The chemist and the notary were now as pale as the doctor. They did not believe him. They did not think that such a thing was possible; but, all the same, from the very moment of his stating the incredible horror, it left them as though stunned, with arms and legs paralyzed, throats dry and hearts beating like mad.

  The nameless terror depicted on their faces seemed rather to exhilarate monsieur le maire who, after a rapid examination of conscience, arrived at the conclusion that, throughout this business, he had preserved so prudent an attitude that he had nothing to fear from the vengeance of the Three Brothers. He showed the coolness which should never desert a chief magistrate in the presence of his fellow-citizens. He silenced the silly moans of the needlewomen and the incoherent questions of the ladies.

  “Come, doctor,” he said, “don’t lose your head like this. Are you quite sure that you saw them?”

  “As sure as I see you now.”

  “In their house, by the roadside?”

  “In their house. They had not even drawn their window-curtains. I was coming down the road, on my way back from my rounds. My mare was going at a slow trot. I saw a cart outside the Vautrins’ door and a light in the windows; and I seemed to hear voices. I had a sort of feeling that I should come upon something unexpected. And I was not mistaken. I was just passing the door, when the door opened and I saw, as plainly as I see you, Élie, Siméon and Hubert quietly carrying a chest out to the cart. I at once whipped up my mare; and she galloped off. But they had caught sight of me and recognized me, they shouted after me, ‘See you soon, doctor!’ I thought I should go mad!...Oh, I thought they were behind me; and I rushed on like the very devil. I felt that I was done for, if I did not reach Saint-Martin before they did. For they are coming!...They are coming!...”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, doctor,” monsieur le maire broke in, speaking in his most serious tone. “If it’s really they, then they’ve escaped from prison and will never dare come here.”

  “I tell you, they are coming. They told me so in court! I’m a dead man!...”

  As he spoke, good old Dr. Honorat, decent man, who, perhaps, before this fatal meeting, had taken a pint of old wine more than he need have on his rounds — for he did himself pretty well — Dr. Honorat, I was saying, noticed the white faces of M. Sagnier and M. Valentin and had the satisfaction of remembering that they too had been threatened at the trial; and he put his satisfaction into words:

  “And you too, M. Sagnier!...And you too, M. Valentin!...You are both dead men!”

  M. Sagnier shook his head and said, in an expiring voice:

  “It’s not true, what you’re saying; it’s impossible!” M. Valentin shared this opinion. He whispered:

  “How can they have got out of Riom gaol? It’s impossible!”

  This was clearly the key-note of the situation; and everybody repeated:

  “No, no, it’s quite impossible!”

  Monsieur le maire smiled at seeing people so frightened: “Come, ladies,” he said, “pull yourselves together. Our worthy doctor has been imagining things. Give him a glass of mulled wine, Mme. Roubion; that will do him good.”

  “I don’t want anything,” said the doctor; and his eyes wandered more wildly than ever over the company.

  Monsieur le maire shrugged his shoulders and, seeing Mme. Toussaint, Mme. Mûre, Mme. Bache and Mlle. Franchet gathered round him like so many hens who had sought refuge under their rooster’s wing, he packed them back to their work. Clucking with anxiety, they returned to the summer dining-room; but no sooner were they there than they uttered such screams that it was now the turn of those in the bar-room to go after them. They found Mme. Toussaint, the old gossip, indulging in an orthodox fit of hysterics. The Tsarina’s dress had disappeared!...

  Chapter XI

  WHAT HAD BECOME of “the masterpiece of French industry?” Obviously, some one had stolen it. But who? And how? No one had remained in the summer dining-room while they were all flinging themselves into ecstasies of horror at Dr. Honorat’s impossible story. On the other hand, there was no way into that room except through the bar-room; and nobody had seen anybody. On the other hand, again, the windows looking on the inner yard of the inn had remained closed. On the other hand, once more, you can’t carry off an Empress of Russia’s gown as you would a pocket-handkerchief.

  The mystery surrounding the incident was so profound that nobody doubted that “there were Vautrins at the bottom of it.” It resembled too closely a number of other indoor disappearances which had never been explained and which had always been put down to the Three Brothers. No one now doubted that Élie, Siméon and Hubert were back and that they had performed the miracle of escaping from the executioner’s knife with the one and only object of rushing to Saint-Martin-des-Bois and stealing the Empress’ gown. And, if M. Jules, the mayor, who had always had a sneaking kindness for those scamps, because of the relations which they kept up with the elected representatives of the nation, if M. Jules still hesitated to yield before the evidence, his hesitation did not last long. For there came a fresh knock at the door of the Black Sun; and the person who knocked seemed in as great a hurry to obtain admission as Dr. Honorat himself had been. An awful silence at once reigned inside the inn, for all were wondering if they were about to hear the voices of the Three Brothers. But no, it was the trembling
voice of an old lady entreating to be let in; and everybody recognized Mme. Godefroy, the Saint-Martin postmistress.

  “An official telegram! An official telegram for monsieur le maire! Open the door, M. Roubion, it’s very urgent. O Jesus, Mary, Joseph!”

  Mme. Godefroy’s terror must have exceeded all bounds for that respectable functionary to neglect the last counsels of prudence and to dare invoke the saints of the Roman and Catholic paradise within two steps of her lord and mayor, who had distinguished himself by his stalwart paganism at the time of the separation of Church and State.

  “Monsieur le maire is here, Mme. Godefroy,” Roubion shouted, through the door.

  “I know that,” replied the other. “Let me in.”

  The mayor, greatly perturbed, said:

  “An official telegram? Push it under the door, Mme. Godefroy.”

  “Never will I push an official telegram under the door!” declared the unhappy woman. “I must deliver it into monsieur le maire’s own hands...”

  “Let her in,” said M. Jules, heroically.

  The door was half-opened and Mme. Godefroy appeared.

  She wore the same mortal pallor, the same wild, staring eyes that had marked the entrance of Dr. Honorat. A yellow paper shook between her fingers. Monsieur le maire took it from her and read the contents of the official telegram aloud:

  “Prefect PUY-DE-DÔME to Mayor SAINT-MARTIN-DES-BOIS.

  “Three brothers Vautrin escaped to-day from Riom gaol; take necessary steps.”

  The mayor, who had no armed forces at his disposal, beyond his beadle and his town-crier Daddy Drum, flung a lifeless, circular glance at those around him. The poor people seemed to have lost the power of breathing. M. and Mme. Sagnier and M. and Mme. Valentin held each other clasped in a tight embrace, forming two couples similar to those in the pictures representing the early Christian families thrown to the lions. Dr. Honorat, in his chair, gave not a sign of life. The band of little old needlewomen clustered round buxom Mme. Roubion; who, with her two hands laid flat on her enormous breast, made a vain effort to control the beating of her heart. And the terror was so great that Mme. Toussaint herself, who was supported by Mme. Boche, who was supported by Mme. Mûre, who kept a tight hold on Mlle. Franchet’s hand, Mme. Toussaint herself had ceased her lamentations on the disappearance of the Empress of Russia’s dress.