The whole thing seemed to me to become more and more suspicious. My mother beckoned to me; I followed her to her own room, and we remained in it with Gertrude, behind well-locked doors, until daylight.
“I’m convinced,” said my mother, “that they know more than they choose to say. They could very well enlighten us about the men who broke into our house to-night. What has Von Treischke been trying to do? I suppose he’s been up to some wickedness.”
“Von Treischke hadn’t been to bed,” I interrupted. “I saw him not more than ten minutes ago surreptitiously enter the ‘madhouse.’”
“Visiting the veiled lady!” cried my mother and Gertrude simultaneously. “Are you sure? No one ever sees the veiled lady but her servant.”
“Well, I’ve seen her,” I returned, “and she wasn’t veiled.”
“You’re the only one. You’re the only one in Renich who has seen her without a veil.”
“Admiral von Treischke and I, you mean.”
I related the scene which I had witnessed from my place at the window. When I finished the story, there was silence for a few moments.
“How long has the veiled lady lived in the ‘madhouse’?” I asked.
“About six months,” replied my mother. “We were extremely surprised one day to see a carriage stop in front of the house which has been disused for so many years. Two women alighted from it: the servant and a woman thickly veiled. They entered the garden, and the carriage drove off again. It was not a carriage belonging to Renich, and we have never seen it since.... The lady goes out occasionally but she is always accompanied by her servant, and always veiled.”
“Is she a prisoner?” I asked.
“Oh no. She goes about at will and speaks to whom she pleases.”
“Whom does she speak to?”
“Well, she goes shopping and speaks to the tradesmen. She doesn’t know anyone here, and no one knows her.”
“For all that, she must give some name when she’s dealing with tradesmen.”
“Not at all. The servant’s name is given and everything is sent to the house in the servant’s name... Oh, the veiled lady has set the tongues of all Renich wagging.”
“What do they say about her?”
“To tell you the truth, it is supposed that since she is dressed in black and veiled, she is some poor soul, plunged in grief by the war, who desires to mourn a husband or a child in solitude. The war has brought about so much moral as well as physical suffering that, in the end, this explanation appeared quite natural to everyone.”
“What language does she speak?”
“German... pure German. She’s certainly a German.”
“Have you personally heard her speak, mother?”
“No, no. I go out less than she does, but people in the town have beard her speak, and we, in this house, have had occasion to talk about her, because for some time no one at Renich spoke of anything but the veiled lady.”
“Does the Admiral often come to Renich?”
“Two or three times a month. But you know the reason of it. He told you himself, and we have no cause to doubt it. It was on our account, unfortunately, that he came. He came about you, to keep us on the rack about you. But no one has ever suspected that he was interested, in the slightest degree, in the veiled lady. We have never seen him go into the ‘madhouse.’ In point of fact, one day, not so very long ago, the Admiral and the veiled lady passed each other in the street outside our windows. They did not even exchange glances. We were convinced that they did not know each other.”
“Did he come to Renich before my adventure at Madeira?”
“Oh yes. We saw him from time to time.”
“Well, since he came to Renich previously, it is obvious that it was not on my account. It was to see the veiled lady.”
“What you say is quite possible. But, at the time, we did not attach any importance to the Admiral’s visit to Renich. Through his wife, he possesses some property in the neighbourhood, and there was no reason why he should not break his journey here for a few hours when travelling from one place to another.
“What I wanted to get at is this: I think I know the veiled lady.”
“Are you going to tell us who she is?”
“I can’t tell you. I’ve been worrying my mind trying to remember who she is. I’ve certainly seen her somewhere. And I have a feeling that it was not so very long ago.”
“Was it before the war?”
“No, during the war. It must have been recently.... Not more than a few weeks ago.”
“At Madeira perhaps.”
“Yes, it must have been at Madeira. The idea has got into my head and I can’t get rid of it.”
“Listen to me, my son,” said my venerable mother, “put aside the idea, and don’t complicate your life with this affair which doesn’t concern us. We’ve enough to trouble us without that.”
These were wise words, to which, however, I paid very little heed, as will be seen in the next chapter.
CHAPTER IV
HOW I RECOGNISED, OR THOUGHT I RECOGNISED THE VEILED LADY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT
THE REST OF the night passed without incident. Our two artillery men must have retired to bed, and we no longer heard the floor creaking under our silent footed, elusive, nocturnal visitors.
Nevertheless we could not continue to live in this fashion. Now that I was conscious of having done my duty, and thoroughly explained matters to Admiral von Treischke, I thought that the best thing would be to tell him of our experiences during the night; omitting of course any reference to the veiled lady. And I would ask him to use his influence to obtain passports to Holland for my mother, myself and Gertrude. We made up our minds as a consequence of our anxieties of the night to leave Luxemburg until the end of the war.
At eight o’clock I set out for the Hôtel de la Cloche d’Or, where, I was informed, the Admiral was staying as was his custom. I had some difficulty, as I threaded my way through the Place du Marché, to evade the enquiries and greetings of old friends who were all over me in their demonstrations of cordial welcome: “Ah, here’s Carolus. Young Carolus Herbert. Carolus Herbert of Renich.” I believe that when I am over sixty I shall be called “young Carolus Herbert.” And yet I am above the middle height. But there is no accounting for things of this sort.
At length I reached the old-fashioned, formal-looking Hôtel de la Cloche d’Or with its gables and turrets and corbelled stories, in the Place des Deux-Fontaines — the square in which stood the Fish Market. I had been accosted as I came along by the fishwives, who do not wear a bridle on their tongues, but I turned a deaf ear to them, and entered the portals of the hotel. Here I learnt that the Admiral had left the night before, and was now living over the Com Exchange which had been converted into barracks.
“Well,” I thought, “he is taking no chances, which is all to the good. And I was conscious of an inward sense of satisfaction that my efforts had not been in vain. If Von Treischke continued to keep out of danger Amalia’s fate might not be desperate. In matters of difficulty the great thing, often, is to gain time. —
I set out, therefore, for the Com Exchange feeling rather pleased with myself. But in order to get there I had to pass through the Rue de la Trompette, and halfway down the street I ran into my old friend Peter, who opened his arms and closed them on young Carolus Herbert.
Peter had known my father intimately, and many were the hours that I passed in his shop of antiquities. He sold furs, very good furs, which came from Rotterdam, and also umbrellas. With his long white beard, he had the good-natured air of a City Father upon whom the sun’s rays had been thrown through a flagon of Moselle; and he was always dressed in a flowing robe of dark stuff such as is sometimes worn by photographers. He was a patriot was Peter. Good excellent Peter! He was not the sort of man who would have permitted, had it depended upon him, our ramparts to become the enclosure of a poultry-yard, and the golden crosses of our churches to be roosts for the Prussian eagle.
The fur and umbrella shop was in the Rue de la Trompette, but I preferred the back-parlour. How often as a boy had I examined the extraordinary objects contained in it, and heard Peter tell stories about them more extraordinary still. He possessed curiosities that appertained to olden times; things that were closely associated with the history of the country. There were iron masks for the punishment of liars; a wooden yoke to which quarrelsome couples were fastened; straw tresses with a big pasteboard ruff covered with little bells which were worn by young girls who had been foolish; and a pillory for drunkards. But what amused me most of all was a cage in which it was the custom to confine bakers who sold bad bread, and dip them in the river.
I was obliged to accompany Peter to his shop. I hardly attempted to excuse myself. It would have been better for me, perhaps, if I had continued my way and thus spared myself the fresh series of terrible misfortunes through which I was to pass. But he clenched my arm with mingled determination and friendship, and cried out loudly in the street: “Egad, what do you say about our swine, young Carolus? What do you say about our swine?”
I tumbled to what swine he was referring. When you knew the old fellow there was not the least doubt about it. I made for the room at the back of the shop. There was always a nice golden flagon “already opened,” in a cupboard; and while old Peter filled two glasses and repeated: “What do you say about our swine, young Carolus?” I looked round with a smile for the cage in which bakers were incarcerated. It was still there, and so, too, was the yoke for quarrelsome couples. Peter never sold anything from his collection of antiques. He was offered respectable sums for them, but at the moment of coming to terms when the buyer was making ready to depart with the ancient relics, Peter refused to complete the transaction, and showed him and his money the door.
“Your father did well to die,” he began. “As soon as he had the first glass... But he did not finish saying what he thought which, for that matter, I guessed, for the door of his fur and umbrella shop was opened with a faint tinkle of its cracked bell, and two women came in. I recognised the veiled lady and her servant.
I shall never forget their entrance. I was leaning against the wooden yoke for quarrelsome couples, and my right hand held a glass of Moselle. In my excitement I spilt the golden liquor, which brought down upon me a reproachful murmur from old Peter. He quickly went to the shop and closed the door which separated it from the room containing his antiques — the “museum” as it was called in the town in compliment to him.
It was a glass door and the red curtains which hung from it, in the Flemish manner, were not so fully drawn that I could not see what was passing in the shop. The veiled lady quietly took a seat. She was attired in a simple but elegant black dress and a well-cut cloak of fine cloth. The small veil that completely covered her face to the chin was of a thick material, and I fancied that it may have been doubled.
She raised her veil a little and I could distinctly see the shape of her mouth, which was small, while her slightly parted lips revealed her youth. But their pallor was hardly a sign of good health. One thing that astonished me was that my impression of the night before was not confirmed. And yet she was quite near me and I had just seen her walk and move about. Had I really known her, her manner and bearing no less than her figure would have helped me to fathom the mystery. At length she spoke, and it seemed to me that I heard her voice for the first time.
Accordingly I concluded that I had made a mistake. I did not know this lady. Had I known her, I should have been able to recall who she was in spite of her veil.... And yet, and yet I had within me a profound and constantly accentuated feeling, an inexplicable restlessness, that drew me to this unknown image as if there were some powerful bond between us that prevented me from turning away from her.
She pointed sometimes with one hand and sometimes with the other to various furs which she wished to see. Peter spread them on the counter before her and puffed his wares. This one came from the fair at Nijni-Novgorod; that one was received from Leipzig, and so forth. The lady’s companion, who remained standing, helped Peter to display the furs to the best advantage. The veiled lady examined them all, but she did not touch them.
Next Peter stated that a relative of his had brought from Petrograd, the year before, a number of furs which he had purchased from the National pawnshop. And he took from a cupboard a cloak made from Canadian mink with a toque to match. They were very beautiful articles, but I marvelled that the veiled lady’s choice should fall upon furs that had already been worn. Such, however, was the case.
She wanted to try on the toque, and there was a whispered colloquy with the maid. In order to try it on she would have to take off her hat and veil. I was absolutely sure of it. In my curiosity I pressed my face to the glass, and I barely had time to draw back slightly when the veiled lady rose to her feet and a general movement was made to the back-parlour.
Peter requested me to go into the shop itself. I assumed my most unconcerned air. In short, I managed so well that from where I stood, in the shop, I had a near view of the face of which I had only caught a glimpse from the distance the night before, when it had put me in so great a flutter. And I had to lean on the counter for I was almost fainting, so formidable and so utterly unexpected was the shock that I received.
No wonder I could not recognise the lady by her movements or her voice. I had never seen her except in a portrait. And in what unforgettable circumstances! Was it true? Lord, was it true? The entire world believed that she was dead. And I knew of one man who mourned her in the depths of the sea, and was moving heaven and earth and the waters under the earth to avenge her death.
With a catch in my breath, almost choking, I leant forward to see her again. But her beautiful face was already out of sight in the thick folds of her veil. What did that matter? I was sure that it was she. Those distinguished features were known to me. I had seen them in so many periodicals, before I gazed upon them, to my irretrievable misfortune, in the apse in the little chapel on board the “Vengeance.”
When she walked past me again — Peter and the lady’s companion were still discussing prices in the other room — I could not help slipping out her name, in an undertone but very clearly; her American name Mrs. G — , universally known as the wife of the first philanthropist in the world.
She moved away abruptly from me and I was a witness of the agitation that shook her frame. But what was my astonishment when she stared at me haughtily and turning to her companion, who, if looks could kill, would have crushed me on the spot, said in an imperious tone:
“Ask the gentleman what he wants. I do not know him.”
“He is an honest man,” interposed Peter, “a friend of mine from his infancy and incapable, I assure you, of behaving with anything but the greatest courtesy to a lady.”
But the veiled lady and her servant were already in the street, and they walked away without troubling to notice the bows and thanks and professions of commercial devotion from Peter who closed the door of his shop and came back to me.
“What’s happened?” he asked, for of course the scene conveyed nothing to him, not to mention that my pallor caused him some anxiety.
“The matter is that I have just recognised in that lady, the wife of the great American philanthropist G — .”
“Mrs. G — ! You’re mad, youngster. You know as well as I do that she’s dead. An accident happened to her with the Huns after Miss Campbell’s execution. All that is known and public property. The event created a great deal of excitement here and in America and in the world in general. But it seems that she or some of her friends had taken part in matters that did not concern them, and misfortunes always happen — that’s well known — when you take the side of the martyrs against the swine.”
To be sure Peter took sides and his attitude was hardly likely to bring him good fortune.
“When I whispered her name as she passed me,” I went on more and more earnestly, “I swear it was a real shock to her. She trembled from head to fo
ot. I tell you that it is she. It is her face. I saw it through the glass when she took off her veil. Heavens, if it is she, the future is not hopeless, and we must rejoice, my dear Peter, because it would help so many things.”
“And that’s why you are so pale. My boy, it would particularly help these gentlemen — at Renich, pigs are called ‘these gentlemen’: it is an old term in the pork-butcher’s business—’ these gentlemen’ who have always asserted that they had nothing to reproach themselves with in the matter of the disappearance of Miss Campbell’s friend, and that the stories of torture and other things were inventions from beginning to end by the enemies of ‘ Kultur.’”
“Obviously that would be a good reply,” I returned, struck by the directness and simplicity of his argument.
“You’ve hit it in one, my boy. They’ve only got to produce this beautiful lady who, you must admit, doesn’t at all look as if she had been cut to pieces, and the slanderers would be silenced. What an opportunity for ‘these gentlemen’ to triumph! Of course the veiled lady has puzzled everyone here, but no one up to now has imagined such a fine story about her as yours.... Moreover if she is the person you think she is, she has only to say so, for she is not dumb. And if she were molested she would be able to go to a consul, for she is not a prisoner. She takes the air when she likes with her old companion; and a little letter is quickly dropped into the post-box.... The whole story is a romantic youth’s fancy. That’s just like you, my dear young Herbert. But if you consider my argument you will rid yourself of a delusion. The veiled lady is free to come and go and to talk at will. A single letter written by her, or a single word from her pale lips, and all France, since she was born in France, and all America, since she became American, not to mention the rest of the world, would rise up to protect her. Are you convinced?”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 361