Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  Was it merely the influence of a strong will over my weakness? It may have been. I should think that the doctor whom I overheard one day making contradictory protestations, was, to some extent, in the same state of mind as myself when he found himself in the Captain’s presence, due allowance being made for our respective positions.

  The doctor certainly did resent being involved in this atrocious submarine crusade, but he resented it from afar, for you should have seen him when he met Captain Hyx. What bowing and scraping! And at the same time what affected smiles of sadness; what looks of devotion — like the dog who continues to love his master even when he is a bad master.

  He was a queer old man, was the doctor, very kind and honest, but unable to make up his mind about anything, and ready with specious arguments to declare, in turn, that a thing was right and wrong, even to the same person.

  He was not, as for a moment I believed, a Frenchman. He was a Belgian who had studied at the University at Lille. His name was Mederic Eristal. He had a habit of shaking his head about everything and nothing, and seemed to be always turning over the keys in his pocket and at the same time the long and short of it in his brain.

  That Captain Hyx should have induced him to come on board... well, it spoke volumes for the powers of persuasion and authority exercised by the Captain. But I soon learnt that during the time he had been on board the doctor had displayed too great a fondness for the schiedam bottle. Who, unfortunately, could venture to blame him for it?

  What was going to happen in the little chapel? That was a question which I intended to ask the doctor himself; as well as many other things which were on the tip of my tongue and in my thoughts. Accordingly, I begged Mederic Eristal to accompany me to my room, and not to leave me until I reached it, stating that I was feeling giddy and had a slight temperature.

  He took my arm in a friendly manner, and led me carefully into the lift. In a corner of an alley-way he gave me some details about an infamous person whom we brushed past, and from whom he hurried me away, notwithstanding that this person bowed his head, which was decorated with feathers, to the very ground.

  “There’s a mountebank and a humbug for you,” said the doctor. “ Apart from that he is a real Red-skin of the ancient Pawnee tribe. He used to work in Buffalo Bill’s circus, I believe. He is tattooed from head to foot with ghastly and humorous designs done in Indian ink by the Comaches of the streets — Red-Indians who are the plague of the outskirts of Chicago. He gave himself out as the executioner of his tribe, entrusted with the torture of prisoners at the stake. All bunkum. It is obvious without going to America that there is only one use that he can put his sword to and that is to draw out the teeth of his victims. In other respects he mangles horribly. Captain Hyx, who is governed by an inexorable logic, engaged him, none the less, as official executioner, thinking that he would make the victim suffer considerably more than one who was an expert at the work. But in that he was mistaken, for the Redskin is as lazy as a tramp and is always ready to make more noise than work. In the end they had to send for a Chinaman, but all the same they keep the Red-skin, who is a disgrace to the vessel. Owing to the colour of his skin, which is like baked clay, every one here calls him Old Latuile.”

  Old Latuile! So this was Old Latuile whose identity had so greatly puzzled me. What an abomination!

  I did not let the doctor leave me. When we reached my quarter of the white prison and the Hindu servant had opened the door with sacerdotal gestures — as though he were opening the door of a temple, I imagine — I drew Mederic Eristal into my room, and while he was feeling my pulse and shaking his head, as usual, I asked him point blank if I could rely on Dolores’ statements.

  “What statements?... what statements?... I don’t want to know anything about them... I refuse to be mixed up in the business.”

  “What business?... There is no business,” I exclaimed. “But did you not tell me that Dolores had something to say to me?”

  “Well, that was a very natural thing for me to do, I think.”

  “Very natural, certainly, and it is very natural that I should ask you....”

  “Don’t ask me anything.... Let me quietly feel your pulse.”

  “May I at least ask you if we are to have the pleasure of your company among us much longer?... I do not disguise from you that your departure will greatly upset me unless you are kind enough to take me with you.”

  “I am not going to leave here,” he replied.... “I am remaining at his disposal. True, I was to leave you at Cadiz; but six doctors are to join the ship at Cadiz. Consequently he must have need of them.... What is going to happen, Heaven only knows.... I have been considering the fact that he must have need of them. And without knowing exactly why, I am staying on.... At least I think I am staying on.... However, it will be just as he pleases.”

  “Then you haven’t yet settled anything....”

  “You find me undecided,” he said, shaking his head, and I ended by thinking that it was a nervous movement. “ Yes, I am always a little undecided. You must know that it’s my ‘confounded trade’ that has made me like this... physic... funny thing.... Apart from feeling a pulse, taking a temperature, or giving a draught, I daren’t do anything or decide anything.... An injection of morphia from time to time to keep the patient’s mouth shut and prevent him from asking for explanations... yes.... Now-a-days every one asks for explanations. There you are.... That’s why I can understand Old Latuile, I assure you. He had good reason to join Buffalo Bill..”

  “Or the Vengeance.”

  I had scarcely uttered this last word when I regretted it. The doctor gave me a look of unutterable reproach, and I saw the tears spring to his eyes. I shook him warmly by the hand.

  “I know your sentiments,” I said.... “Forgive me if I have pained you.... You are the only man here whom I like and who still has the look and heart of a man.”

  But he hurried away with the same display of feeling as he had shown when I overheard his conversation with Gabriel and Dolores.

  “The only one who is a coward, a coward... a coward...” he threw at me with a sob and disappeared.

  And then Buldeo came on the scene.

  “Will you dine alone or with the prisoners, sir?”

  “Alone... alone, Buldeo.... But I feel a bit feverish.... Get me a little soup and a boiled egg only. Tell me, Buldeo, about these prisoners. There are some things that I don’t understand...

  “You have an appointment with Captain Hyx tomorrow evening in the little chapel,” he answered. “I have been told to take you there. Afterwards you will understand everything. We have nothing to hide from you.”

  The next day seemed to me to be very long and tedious. I can recall only one unimportant incident, which occurred in the afternoon. The doctor came to see me. He was somewhat excited and begged me in a most mysterious manner to forget absolutely — to erase from my memory — everything that had been said during the previous evening about the six doctors who were to join the ship at Cadiz. In particular, I was to forget the name of that Spanish port.

  Moreover, I was to be absolutely ignorant of anything which might enable me to “place” the whereabouts of the Vengeance as she sailed under the sea. I was inclined to think that we had entered the Straits of Gibraltar and that it was in this part of the world that we had encountered the German submarine.

  After he received my promise of forgetfulness, the doctor, who felt my pulse while thinking of other things and shaking his head, as usual, disappeared swearing eternal friendship.

  At last the evening arrived, and Buldeo showed me into the little chapel which was at one end of the private library and communicated directly, so Buldeo informed me, with the Captain’s bedroom. Buldeo left me by myself.

  The little chapel was a veritable gem, a beautiful specimen of the jeweller’s art rather than of architecture, reproducing in miniature — and thus I can describe it in a sentence — the Sainte-Chapelle in the Law Courts in Paris; that flamboyant masterpiec
e of Gothic art, as the guide-books say.

  The lofty stained-glass windows were illuminated by electric lamps placed outside the chapel, so that the light which penetrated them and was diffused over the marble flagstones and the altar, seemed as if it emanated from the light of day. And in the silence and absence of movement, and amidst so much Gothic splendour, one could entirely forget one’s surroundings, and see only the great Christ with outstretched hands above the altar; and be ready to bow the knee as though one were in a real House of God on land.

  In this wonderful little chapel there were four missal reading-stands of great beauty, and four lecterns, and these alone constituted the furniture. Placed on the four lecterns were four huge green account books, the corners of which were bound in brass, and their conspicuously commercial aspect was in singular contrast with their sacred setting.

  On the other hand, I was attracted by a perfectly splendid book which was lying on the altar itself before the tabernacle. The binding was inlaid with precious stones which must have represented an immense value. Byzantine art, in the days of its wildest opulence, never embellished to such a degree the word of Him who preached that “blessed are the poor.”

  I raised the cover curious to read in its gorgeously decorated Gospel. But I no sooner ran my eye down the pages of the terrible book than I let it fall, starting back with a gasp of affright.... Turning pale and wanting only to escape I looked round.

  “Monsieur Herbert... who gave you permission to look at my ledger?”

  In front of me stood Captain Hyx, who with a friendly and unaffected gesture held out his hand.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  WHAT WAS SAID IN THE LITTLE CHAPEL

  AND SO HE offered me his hand.

  It was the first time that he had done so, and I would have given a great deal, a very great deal, if he had never thought of such an action. Nevertheless I took the hand which I so little wanted to grasp. It was neither cold nor hot. There was nothing uncommon about it.

  He led me to the four lecterns on which lay the four green brass-cornered account books. Depending from them were silk book-marks, and these contained little squares of parchment on which were written either figures or the letters of the various alphabets of Eastern as well as Western languages.

  “Monsieur Herbert,” he said, alluding to my indiscretion of a moment ago, “before looking at my ledger which I have placed on the holy altar, in front of the tabernacle, because it belongs to God, it will be well to cast your eye over my ordinary book-keeping which concerns men.”

  He pointed to the four green account books, and on the covers I read: Day Book, Letter Copying Book, Stock-taking Book, Book of Balances.

  “It is from these four books that I make up that other one,” he went on, indicating the brilliantly bound volume on the altar, “and I am doing this and shall continue to do so until God Himself sends me His Angel to write on it the word ‘Finis.’”

  He seemed to take time to reflect. And I gave heed to his silence just, as before, I listened to his words. And thus it was that his very silence disturbed and overpowered me.... And yet I was not going to begin by showing any sympathy for this man who was Amalia’s cruellest enemy and perhaps my own. When I think about it all now, I can only, in truth, attribute my irresolution to the exceptional and irresistible power which mastered me as it masters every one... the power of sincerity. Yes, this man in his violence was sincere. He believed that right was on his side. Look at him! Listen to him as he meditates for a moment in this chapel before the God whom he dares to invoke.

  He ponders quietly over all his reasons for being in the right, and perhaps he prays God to enlighten me... Carolus Herbert of Renich.

  He has let go my hand. Now he places his own on the first green book on his right which bears the mark: “Book of Balances,” and he says:

  “Monsieur, you have a generous heart. Your wild behaviour in going to Frau von Treischke’s assistance is a proof of it. But I hope that that fine impulse, very natural in a man who is still young, will not prevent you from considering with good sense the painful and drastic measures which I feel myself called upon to take for the vengeance of God and the honour of man.

  .. Monsieur Herbert, with the atrocities of the Beast before me, what could I do but open these books of accounts?... There they are; you can turn over the pages; any one may read them.... It’s honest book-keeping which does not fear being checked.... Study it... study it...” he continued, opening the book. “Here is some special book-keeping such as one seldom sees in commerce, but it answers our requirements quite well. We drew up a balance sheet of an entirely new sort, and this balance sheet takes into account not only the article of exchange, but, in addition and more particularly, the quality of the individual proprietor of the article; because the quality of the individual often marks the quality of the article. There are arms and arms just as there are men and men. For instance, the arm or the leg, or even the head, of Admiral von Treischke would be of infinitely more value than any other leg or arm, or the head of the first person who chanced to come along.”

  How can I explain the effect which was produced on me by this unexpected “ conversation”? I had seen too many things on board that accursed vessel to hope for a moment that I was the sport of some ghastly pleasantry. For that matter, the Captain’s look and tone absolutely dispelled any idea of a jocular purpose. He spoke, I knew, with the utmost solemnity. And calling to mind Dolores’ injunctions, I endeavoured to “rise to the occasion.”

  “Are you beginning to understand me?” he asked very courteously.

  “Yes,” I replied with a shudder.... “I understand you quite well.... It’s awful... awful!”

  “Observe, my dear sir, that if you did not understand me I should have to put up with it.... The important thing for me and for the world, is that I should be understood by them.”

  “And do they understand you?”

  “They are beginning to understand me. All the same, as far as you are concerned, I should very much like, if possible,” he continued with great and slightly affected politeness which was not lost upon me, “to inspire you with other feelings than those of horror. If you had the patience or the inclination to examine the progress of our movement during the last six months, you would see that we have obtained appreciable results.”

  “Are you in correspondence direct with them?”

  “Certainly,” replied Captain Hyx, turning towards his Letter Copying Book. “You can judge for yourself as much as you please. The poste restante was not created solely for the convenience of neutrals.... The main thing, once again, is to talk to these people in a language which they can understand...

  He opened the Letter Book and requested me to skim through the first letters of a correspondence between himself and certain submarine commanders well known in Germany. I raised my head, obviously more moved than I could have wished to appear.

  “It’s simply appalling,” I said.

  “Do you think so?” returned Captain Hyx.... “ Some people are extraordinary... tender-hearted people like you, Monsieur. They write readily enough that the Bosches, as the French call them, are the enemies of humanity, and as stupid as they are dangerous, because they are incapable of imagining any other mentality than their own, and can argue the point of view of others only from their own Bosche reasoning....

  “But these people to whom you yourself, Monsieur, belong are as dangerous and, if you will forgive me for saying so, as Bosche in their way as the Bosches themselves, when they reply to atrocities by speaking the language of humanity. It is you, in that case, who cannot escape from your own understanding. It is you who are under the reproach of being unable to conceive any other mentality than your own.... Otherwise you would talk to the Bosche in Bosche language....

  “Now to talk to the Bosche in Bosche language is to speak the language of terror; the only language which they understand and upon which they rely to convince the world... the only language, consequently, with which
one can hope to convince them....

  “And I say to them: ‘Now then, terror for terror.... An arm for an arm, a limb for a limb, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.... Let us make up accounts....”

  “Yes... yes....”

  “And I make up accounts.... For instance, see where we stand in the matter of arms.... See the Stock-taking Book and the Book of Balances....”

  “oh, please.... I do understand.... I do understand....”

  “And for hands... for the hands of little children.

  Do you know how much they owe us still for the hands of little children?”

  “Stop... stop...” I cried, beside myself. “You are not going to make me believe that you cut off the hands of little children?”

  “No!” rapped out the Man gloomily, closing the book with a bang. “No!... We fall short of them in our treatment of little children.... I couldn’t do it.... We all have our weaknesses.... But we take the hands of two men for the hands of one little child.”

  I held my head between my clutching fingers with the gesture of a man who fears for his reason.

  “Compose yourself,” he said. “Compose yourself....

  I shall require from you the exercise of all your self-possession.”

  “And what about women?” I gasped. “What do you do with women?”

  “That I cannot answer you, Frau von Treischke being our principal prisoner....”

  “You would no more dare hurt a woman than you would dare hurt little children.... I can understand everything... everything... but I cannot understand torturing a woman; a woman, besides, who has done nothing... who was one of the first to deplore the Hun atrocities... and those committed by her husband. You have so many victims, ready at hand here, that no useful purpose would be served by shedding the blood of an innocent woman.”