Once again, Leroux has tackled a difficult genre — that of the automaton and its relationship with humans, exploring the topic of inner beauty and outer ugliness, contrasted with outer beauty and an inner lack of feeling. It is a creditable effort and for those that enjoy ‘over the top’ horror and gothic tension, it will be a rollicking read.
Henri Désiré Landru (1869-1922), the serial killer. He was nicknamed “The Bluebeard of Gambais” by the French press, after the mythical medieval nobleman that murdered his wives and the village of Gambais, near Paris, where he killed at least seven women between December 1915 and January 1919.
CONTENTS
THE KISS THAT KILLED
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
THE KISS THAT KILLED
READERS OF “DRACULA” and classics of macabre thrills will find unequalled spine chilling horror in this story of murder, madness and the slowly killing vampire kiss.
Gaston Leroux, master of mystery stories, surpasses himself in this tale of an ugly man whose need for love drove him to madness and murder; a vampire who has married his victim; a beautiful girl and her lover whose passion is raised to strange intensities by the horrors around him. Step by step the story mounts to a climax of shuddersome power.
CHAPTER I
THROUGH A SKYLIGHT
THE SHOP OF Benedict Masson stood on one of the most peaceful and secluded spots, albeit one of the most decayed, in that quarter of old Paris known as the Isle of St. Louis. Benedict Masson was an accomplished bookbinder, but he did not consider it beneath his dignity to carry on a small stationery business in this old world locality, in this unfrequented little district, which was like a country town within the capital, because, owing to the deep moat of water by which it is completely surrounded, it seems to have been saved from that eternal Bacchanalia called, for want of a better phrase, Parisian life.
In this street, the name of which has since been changed, but which was known not so very long ago as the Street of the Holy Sacrament, within the shadow of many old houses of great distinction, which for over two centuries have been the homes of those who have borne great names in France, there had been opened — or would it be nearer the truth to say, had been about half opened — a few little retail shops, a market or two, and a watchmaker’s modest establishment, each of them making a brave show of life and activity.
And it was in this same little street in which our bookbinder lived — an almost unknown quarter which seemed to exist only by virtue of its recollections of the past — that there occurred one of the most extraordinary events of our day. Everything considered, the affair was prodigious, for it marked a date (spelled with a capital D) in the history of mankind which was transcendent, while at the same time frightful. Even Paris, long accustomed to the terrible, was shaken by the revelations.
In order to understand this fully we must go back to the place of origin, so let us cross the encircling water by the Pont Marie and look about us. Admitting that existence is not necessarily solely represented by the most active phases of life, we can realize that in this quarter of the Isle of St. Louis, more than in any other in the French capital, there has always been a most intense sort of existence, but it has been a purely intellectual one.
Without stopping to recall such far-away shades as Voltaire and that of Madame de Châtelet, we may find among the poets, the painters, and the writers who have pitched their tents here such names as George Sand, Baudelaire, Théophile Gautier, Gerard de Nerval, Daubigny, Corot, Barye, and Daumier.
At the corner of the Street of the Huckster, which was formerly called the Street of the Headless Woman, there looms from the depth of a niche the statue of a mutilated virgin, which has seen the rising and setting of this Pleiades of Art. Benedict Masson, who was not only a maker of artistic bookbindings, but also a poet — a strangely exotic poet such as one sometimes finds in these changing times — believed that he occupied the very room wherein for a certain time there lived and suffered the author of “Fleurs du Mal.”
Being the humble writer of verse that he was, it was only natural that he should be singularly proud of this distinction.
However, we can only really know Benedict Masson by entering into his life. Like all those others who have believed themselves to be a little better than the rest of us, it pleased him to concentrate all his attention upon the details of an existence which, at the time of these events — when he was thirty-five years old — had apparently been passed in the most profound monotony.
I emphasize the word “apparently” because some might consider that his “Memoirs,” recorded day by day, have been directed solely for one end, namely, that of making one believe in the innocence of a monster who lived perpetually in fear of the discovery of his crimes. Those who do believe this may have some excuse — they may even have reasons for their contention. But are they perfectly just? We shall see.
For my part, I have been struck by the note of sincerity which I have found in the memoirs of Benedict Masson, a sincerity apparent even in those passages that are most emotional and disordered.
It was the end of the month of May, and the day had been very warm. The spring that year had been one of the earliest ever known to Paris. It was nine o’clock at night. In the corner of the deserted street, now plunged in shadows, the last sound heard was that of the slamming of the door of Mademoiselle Barescat’s little haberdashery shop, which she herself closed after she had put up the window shutters, and the only lights visible throughout the whole street were those of the bookbinder and the watchmaker.
Benedict Masson’s little shop was just opposite that of old Norbert, the watchmaker, who was seldom seen to leave his place except on a Sunday morning, when, in the company of his daughter and his nephew, he went to mass at the near-by church of St. Louis on the Isle. The rest of the time he lurked behind his green serge curtains, bent low over his instruments, mysteriously occupied by works which, in that part of the city at least, had made him famous.
He had, it was rumored, invented some new sort of watch movement which ought to make him a fortune, but which, up to that time, had not succeeded in gaining the attention of business men. However, undaunted, it seemed that he was now plunging along after a will-o’-the-wisp, in the pursuit of which many another beside himself would have lost whatever reason they possessed.
His fellow-watchmakers, with whom he had long since dropped all communication, spoke of him among themselves with some compassion. The better informed murmured something about an “escapement” which was contrary to all the laws of mechanics, but through which the unhappy man hoped to achieve perpetual motion. Is it necessary to say more?
As might be expected, there was on exhibition in the front of his shop a very curious specimen of watchmaking which displayed gears of unusual form. A
mong other fantastic shapes, for instance, there were wheels which were square. However, the people who lived in the street declared that this very curious watch, with its novel movement, had been running for years, and that it had never been rewound. Mademoiselle Barescat, the owner of the little haberdashery shop, stoutly maintained this.
“Thrust my hand into the flame, but it’s the truth,” she would say. So, in short, between the two old bridges of Marie and of St. Louis, which were on either end of the island, old Norbert was looked upon as a diabolical personage.
On this evening Benedict Masson, behind his own curtains, kept his eyes steadily on the watchmaker’s shop. And we may as well say at once that it was not the sight of old Norbert at work which made Benedict forget his binding, but the vision of the old man’s daughter, who had ventured into his workshop.
Let us then glance through the somewhat disordered memoirs of Benedict Masson and we shall be enlightened concerning many things.
“There she was,” relates Benedict in these memoirs of his, “there she was, the one being whom I have pictured to myself. She for whom I would give my very existence; she whom God has created for my virile nature, which is thirsting for beauty and mystery. Never in all the world was there ever created anything more beautiful or mysterious than this girl, Christine.
“Never was any nature created more profoundly serene than hers. Never human being more calm. And what is more impenetrable than calm, which is more profound than the soundless depths? The furious waves of the sea delight me, but I am overwhelmed by a placid sea. The calm eyes of Christine frighten, yet attract me. They are an abyss in which I might be lost.
“But there are imbeciles who do not comprehend this. And who could understand Christine? Of a surety, not that queer stick of a watchmaker who is her father, who is forever bending over his square wheels, and who, it would be safe to say, has not really observed his daughter for years; nor his simpleton of a nephew, Jacques, who is betrothed to the girl.
“Oh, yes, he’s a phenomenon at the school of medicine — quite an exceptional chap, it appears, some sort of an instructor on the faculty. A butcher! A gallant youth who would permit himself to be quartered for the sake of his beloved. He passes all the time not devoted to his work at the amphitheater in gazing at her, but he never really sees her. There are many who, like him, gaze at Christine because she is beautiful, but I, Benedict Masson, am the only person who actually sees her as she is.
“The girl has nothing in common with the flappers of to-day. She has the figure and carriage of an archduchess — the air of haughtiness perhaps a bit too marked. The nape of her neck is like that of a goddess, and over it is coiled a mass of hair that has the reflections of old bronze.
“When she turns to hang the hat she has just taken from her head, on a clothes peg, the curve of her body, the movement of her arm in that single gesture is like that of a Capitoline figure. Even there comparisons fail, for she is more beautiful than any marble Diana which I have ever seen. Just to see her walk and move makes me long to kiss her footprints.
“Her face is a perfect oval. Happily, the nose curves a little, softening the severity of the classic perfection. Her mouth is drawn in angelic purity, the lips not full, and although the face is an ideal one, it does not lack animation. This beautiful girl, who is an artist, and who gives lessons in modeling for her living, needs no other model than her exquisite self.
“But all the world may see what I have described. What it does not see is that under her calm, inscrutable gaze, in the depths of her green eyes, flecked with gold, there is — there is — I will tell you what, an immense, a prodigious, unceasing amazement that she, who was fashioned to dwell in Olympia, should have to live in a den like this miserable little shop on the Isle of St. Louis, betwixt a watchmaker and a sawbones.
“Of course it must be said that she undoubtedly loves her father, as well as the cousin, whom they say she is to marry one of these days — but let us hope the day may be as far distant as possible. And, contemplating such misery, how is it that she does not destroy herself, she who is the living embodiment of both beauty and virtue. She is as magnificent as a pagan statute and as pure as a saint in a missal. Well, there is nothing left to be said. She is the madonna of the Isle of Saint Louis!
“Very well, listen! This is what happened this evening: Old Norbert and his daughter and nephew do not live in my street; only their shop is there. They live in a detached building which is separated from the shop by a garden. I have never seen the place, and, with the exception of the charwoman, who comes there every morning, no one else has penetrated to it. But now I thought of a way to get at this villa. Yes, this very night, after the lights were extinguished in the street, I climbed up by a ladder to the attic of the house in which I live, and by peeping through a skylight I obtained a view.
“The villa has two stories. The second story has been made over into a sort of studio with a broad window, and the studio is reached by a wooden staircase on the outside of the building. The watchmaker and his nephew sleep downstairs, while Christine sleeps in the studio. The moon was shining brightly as I gazed. For more than an hour Christine stood leaning against the handrail, which runs the whole length of the studio, forming a balcony. What a sight for a poet and lover.
“Suddenly she left the balcony and came a short way down the stairs. Then she stopped and bent her head, as if listening, toward the lower floor, in which are the apartments of her father and betrothed. At last she went back up the stairs and entered the studio. Then, going to an enormous antique wardrobe, which stood at the farther end of the room, she took a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. And from out this wardrobe I saw a man step. Then I saw nothing more, for she closed the deep window and drew the curtains.
CHAPTER II
THE WOMEN WHO DISAPPEARED
“IT IS EASY to imagine what sort of a night I spent. I had seen all in Christine’s eyes, but not that! A gentleman hidden in a wardrobe! I shall certainly never be anything but a poet, which is the poorest thing that exists, but, my love, you are everything to me. My soul was hungering for you, alone! To me you were a green island in the sea, a fountain and an altar bedecked with fruit and fairy flowers! But I had not foreseen that — a gentleman in the wardrobe. Henceforth the golden cup is dented. Let the death bell toll! Again another sainted soul is floating on the black wave! One more lost. Ah, the daughters of Satan!
“Well, I can tell you that this sleepless night was not only filled with a despairing rage against my innate stupidity, but also with a diabolical joy, and you may easily understand this complex sentiment. I adored Christine, not only as an angel for whom I shall mourn all my life, but I loved her as a woman, as the most beautiful of women, and that was what tortured me, for I realized that this woman would never be mine, that she would never love me, and the awfulness of this absolute truth was doubly increased by my knowledge of the fact that that young sawbones opposite, that model student, that joiner of surgery, would some day claim that jewel of God and on some fine morning slip a ring on her finger and seek out the mayor to perform the legal nuptials!
“So I could have killed this gentleman in the closet like a dog, if I had the opportunity. But, all the same, I feel less dislike for him than for that other one, for, at least, he is avenging me — and how?
“And now I must tell you why there is no hope for me as regards Christine. I am ugly.
“That cousin of hers is not handsome either. No matter what you say, he’s commonplace, which, in my eyes, is worse. I have observed him closely as he passed my window. He’s a little short fellow about twenty-eight, with a rather thick-set figure, short-sighted, a high forehead, projecting cheek bones, a rather wholesome mouth, but too big; a short, fair beard, which seems to be as soft and light as the hair of little children, and when he takes off his hat you see that he is bald — bald from study.
“There’s your hero! It isn’t much of a thing! But, at least, it is not a monster, and, with a de
gree at the faculty, it might make some sort of a husband. While I! I am a monster! My ugliness is terrible! Why terrible? Because all women flee from me.
“Could there be anything in the world more terrible than that? My arms have never clasped a woman. They could not! The thought that I might embrace them, merely the thought, frightens them. It is exactly as I tell you. I am not exaggerating. Oh, what misery! As some one has said, ‘A life of fire fills my veins!’ To me every woman appears to be the gift of a whole world! I hear a thousand nightingales at a time. At a banquet of life I could devour all the elephants of Hindustan, and use the spire of the Cathedral of Strassbourg as a toothpick! Life is the gift supreme. And I cannot live!
“Why should this awful sheath be around my brain? Why this difference of proportion between the two sides of my face? My face? Why these frightful overhanging brows? Why this crude projection of the lower jaw? Why this chaos? ‘The Man Who Laughed’ was very happy in comparison to me. At least, he laughed! He laughed for others. But what do I do for others? I am not one who laughs, nor am I one who weeps. My face is a dreadful mystery.
“Am I going to confess something which will perhaps drag me farther than I should wish to go?
“My faith! In my present state of mind what have I to fear? What have I to dread? The very worst that could happen, even the most extraordinary adventure, could not surpass that which has taken place tonight. I had only one reason for living — to see Christine. But, since I saw a gentleman hidden in her closet, I say, as the sailors, ‘God help me!’
“But it is not such a very long time that I have known myself to be as ugly as I am. Two years ago I did not imagine that my face was an object of terror to every one. Alas! I knew only too well that I could not please women, but I still had illusions. Then, alone, in my tower of ivory, standing before my mirror, I examined my sublime ugliness. I studied myself. My profile, my three-quarter face, and I even made faces at myself.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 384