“That is always the way, I thought.
CHAPTER IX
THE MARCHIONESS OF COULTERAY
“CHRISTINE CAN LEAD me where she likes. I agree to everything that she suggests. I am the most abject coward, for I know positively why he submits to having me there with her. It is because I am so ugly.
“No wonder they thought of me at once, when they realized the necessity for having a third party in their friendship. Am I not an ideal third party? Neither of them could imagine that they would have anything to fear from my being there. But, between you and me, the monster does not like to be teased.
“We shall see — we shall permit ourselves to be led, because we cannot do very well otherwise.
“Here we are together in the little street leading to the quays — there is always a draft in this little street. This morning it is swept by a high wind — the same high wind which, sweeping in all its fury, cleansed the island of the slags of last night. Ah, those slags of last night! That funereal odor! Yes, let the wind sweep it all away. But I can see nothing in the wind but Christine’s silk-clad legs, tapping their little Louis XV heels on the old pavement. Oh, Christine, under your satin slippers, under your charming silk-clad feet, I place my whole happiness — my genius and my fate.
“There is a great attraction still about this dilapidated abode which looms ahead of us as in the shadows of the past. The Coulteray mansion, with the exception of, perhaps, the Lauzun mansion, is the finest on the island. If it is not the finest, it is the best preserved in its original state. It is the one that has been less retouched by the architects.
“Passing under the archway, which is closed by heavy, nailed doors, we enter through a small door, behind which we encounter a noble looking old fellow, who wears a gold-braided cap. He seems to be expecting us. The little door closes behind us with a dull clang and we penetrate into the heavy shades which have been hanging over the building for so many centuries.
“Christine leads me through the court of honor with its old flagstones imbedded in moss. Crossing rapidly, without stumbling, she gives me no time to admire the harmonious curves of the flight of stairs. We are already in a wide, lofty hall when we suddenly come upon, as if he had sprung from some corner or the other, a species of human cat, bronzelike in appearance, with two enormous jade green eyes, who wears an immaculate silk turban.
“‘That is Shing-shing,’ whispered Christine, ‘the marquis’s little Hindu valet. He is very useful, but he is always on one’s heels. He’s always swinging himself out from some cornice, or pulling himself up over a door. He is most amusing. If you want to chase him away, all you have to do is clap your hands just the same as you would to frighten any little animal, and that is just what he is. Be off, Shing-shing.’
“At her words, Shing-shing darts away, and in three leaps has scrambled into a sort of padded niche, from out of the covers of which he stuck his head, waiting for orders, while thinking up his little pranks.
“Christine pushes open the doors, and we pass through several rooms with wonderful woodworkings, with old gildings, and with furniture whose covers permit their scaly feet to be seen. Oh, the glorious past — the glorious and intact past! But why does this statue of a Punjabi suddenly appear in the arched Louis XV doorway? A Herculean Hindu, who coldly salutes us as he throws open the library door with a dignified gesture.
“‘That is Sangor,’ said Christine. ‘He is the marquis’s chief valet, his confidential man. Sangor always seems like a god. He always has the appearance of just having returned from a conference with Buddha. He will hand you a glass of sugared water, just as though he were making you a gift of all the treasures of Golconda. But be careful of him, as you can easily see that he is a brute. I believe him to be very intelligent, but you can never tell whether he understands you, or whether he just guesses. And, besides that, he is as strong as a caryatid.’
“‘But do they only keep Hindu servants here?’ I inquired.
“‘No,’ she replied, ‘you have already seen the porter, he is French — the only one. The marchioness’s maids are all English, but the marquis has only Hindu servants for his personal use. You know he was married in India.’
“‘Yes, I have heard so. But, I say, this library is enormous — you did not exaggerate.’
“‘I never exaggerate.’
“In the dim library, with its old worn woodwork, its old molding, and its friezes, I beheld a frail and gilded trellis work, like the delicate interlacing of basket work, which might well have been intended for the boudoir of a courtesan. And as I gazed further, I discovered thousands and thousands of volumes in their ancient bindings. As I glanced at them where they lay on the tables, on the shelves, and on the music stand, I could see that they were priceless marvels.
“‘Now, you see, you see,’ cried Christine, ‘that there are priceless books here, rare autographs, of which even the arsenal does not possess the equal. Look at this carved fleur-de-lis chest; glance at this hourly book of Blanche de Castille, which she left to her sainted son; read this, it is the Psalter of M. Loys, left him by his mother; these others are treasures from the Saint Chappelle; see this Bible of Charles V, with these words in the king’s own handwriting: “Ce livre a moy roy de France”; and this missal here has every leaf framed with an exquisite garland of flowers from the brush of a master painter — a great artist, whose name we do not know.
“‘Oh, my dear master bookbinder, my neighbor, see what treasures we have here for you, what inspirations. Here is also, in this desk, a love letter from Henry IV, who “embraces a thousand times” the Marchioness of Verneuil. The marquis wants to make up a collection of autographs, if he can find a bookbinder who is capable of doing the work. Now look to your laurels, M. Masson.’
“I was enraptured. I was now only the artist — the lover within me seems to have fled. But, suddenly, in the great dim room, where only a faint ray of light penetrated, I felt that the tragedy, which for the moment I had forgotten, was entering with this dream figure which, muffled in white fur, was coming toward us. Which tragedy? Why, the one that I had partly seen, the one which had taken place before my own eyes. Yet, is there one here of which I am still in ignorance?
“Yes, when I ponder upon this first strange hour spent in the old Coulteray mansion, that which strikes me most forcibly is the impression that the one of these tragedies might some day be explained by the other, or that, in any case, the one was not totally unrelated to the other, and that the wall, which had formerly been built to separate the ancient dwelling from the villa, would no longer separate anything, since Christine herself had been able to get around it.
“How much truth was there in the story which she had told me that same morning? Perhaps I should learn this from the mouth of the pale apparition coming toward us.
“It was the marchioness.
CHAPTER X
I CONCEDE TO THEIR REQUEST
“I SHOULD HAVE recognized her, although she seemed even more lifeless than before. The sight of her plunged me immediately into that indefinable reverie which sweet music causes when it is borne to our ears by a far-off breeze across a deep silence. What breath from beyond stirs this fragile form? While Christine seemed the ideal realization of life, by her resemblance to the most exquisite figures of the Italian Renaissance, the marchioness’s face had such a dreamlike air of delicate transparency, which made one afraid to look at her without feeling guilty of an impropriety.
“I never wearied of looking at Christine, but I could only lower my eyes in the presence of this languorous lady, for fear lest I should hurt her by my gaze, or perhaps it was through pity, because this delicate, fleeting form was softly illuminated by a smile, beneath which one could find a look of anxiety and pain.
“I saw at once that I was expected, for no sooner had Christine introduced me than the marchioness began thanking me, almost with effusion, for coming, and in such a hasty manner as though she were afraid of being caught. Her voice reminded me of t
he faint chirping of a little bird which had fallen from its nest.
“‘Mlle. Norbert has spoken to us of you,’ she said. ‘You are indeed welcome. The marquis needs a man like you for his collection. Just imagine, Mlle. Norbert wanted to leave us. It is so gloomy here, but now that she will have such an artist as yourself for company she will be patient. I also love the books, and I shall come to visit you from time to time. I get lonely. Oh, if you only knew how bored I am! You must forgive me for saying this, but you know I was brought up in India. You must not leave me! Oh, you must not leave me!’
“Then she left us, or rather she disappeared, going out of sight at the end of the room, as though she were passing through the wall, in the meantime repeating to herself over and over again: ‘I must not be left. I must not be left.’
“No! Christine had not lied, and perhaps it was more for the sake of the marchioness than the marquis that she remained — through pity, perhaps. If she had had an intrigue, she certainly would never have told me about it.
“‘Poor woman,’ she murmured.
“We were both silent. I stood looking out of the window into a garden which was laid out behind the mansion. The garden appeared to me to be neglected, but not to that point where it was displeasing. The approaching summer already seemed to be triumphant, for there was a mass of verdure and a profusion of blossoming flowers. I turned to Christine:
“‘The marchioness does not appear to be in good health,’ I said.
“‘Well,’ she replied, ‘it varies from day to day. Sometimes one would think that she was about to pass away, and then, with some good meats and some gravy, her strength returns, and she seems quite normal again.’
“‘What do you mean by normal?’ I inquired.
“‘Oh, nothing,’ she evaded; ‘but I do think that the marchioness imagines a great deal. There are days when she thinks herself worse than she really is, and the thought is enough to make her quite ill.’
“And, without a change of voice, Christine went on:
“‘Oh, M. Masson, I want to tell you something. You see that little door down there at the foot of the garden? Well, it opens on that little street we came up on our way here, just about fifty yards or so from your place. It will be much more convenient for you to come here directly through that gate, and then you can come right into the library which opens into the garden. That will be easier than to go all the way around to the front entrance, where you will have to wait upon the convenience of the “Swiss,” as they still say here. I will ask the marquis to give you a key.’
“‘And do you think that the marquis will give a key to a stranger?’ I inquired.
“‘You are not a stranger,’ she said; ‘and, besides, the marquis will not refuse to give the key the moment that it is I who requests it for you. But when you get it you must let me have it.’
“‘Let you have it!’
“‘Yes, give it to me. Oh, don’t open your eyes with astonishment — they show your wicked thoughts. If I want that key, it is not to use it to come here secretly — that I must ask you to believe — but rather so that I may make my escape from here if it should become necessary.’
“I could hardly believe my own ears. ‘Then you have reason to fear the marquis?’ I demanded.
“‘You shall see.’
“Once again silence fell between us. I shall see him if I so desire, for, after all, nothing has yet been decided. But I keep this thought to myself, judging it to be useless to give it expression, for my will is so weak when matched against Christine. Yet, notwithstanding, I cannot conceal my anxiety. Within the past few moments, because of the marchioness and Christine, I have felt myself to be in a very vague atmosphere. The watchmaker’s daughter understands my hesitation.
“‘I assure you,’ she said, ‘I have told you all. There is nothing extraordinary, though little else goes on here but that.’
“‘Are we not going to see the marquis?’
“‘Not to-day, perhaps. I had hoped to, but he is still a little ashamed of the scene which occurred this morning.’
“‘This morning?’
“‘Yes. He wanted to kiss me. That is the most serious thing that has taken place between us. And that is forgivable.’
“‘What do you mean?’
“‘I have forgiven him, but I shall be on my guard in the future. That is all.’
“‘Yes — but the key — the key? And me?’
“She understood my bewilderment, and then something amazing happened. She clasped my hand and held it in hers as though it belonged to her, with a gesture which took a definite possession of my person, and then said:
“‘Please be my friend. For a long time I have wanted you for a friend.’
“She had desired me for a friend for a long time! And yet she had passed quite near me for months — yes, years — and still she had not moved her eyelashes and her look had remained cold. Oh, be pitiful — be pitiful, Christine! ‘Do not make me weep,’ as my poor verses say. ‘I am an orphan; I am a child. Do not draw me into your fire. Nothing can hold me back.’ And perhaps you would not forgive me as easily as you have forgiven the marquis.
“But I was speechless and did not dare move, for fear of a catastrophe. For fear that some blunder on my part, some awkward caress, which, however humbly it might be offered, coming from me, could be none other than a form of brutality. I swear to you that it was all I could do to control myself. Meanwhile, my hand must have burned her, for she dropped it suddenly, as if it were a red-hot iron. Then she made an excuse for this abrupt gesture.
“‘The marchioness!’ she exclaimed hastily.
“I had heard nothing, but she was right. The white furs had again made their appearance. They stood behind her, framing an anxious face, which seemed as smiling and distant as an old pastel.
“‘Have you decided to remain with us, M. Benedict Masson?’ inquired the marchioness.
“‘Yes, yes! I shall remain here. I shall remain. You may rest at ease.’
CHAPTER XI
LIVING IN A “TOMB”
“JUNE 1. I have seen the marquis. He is what one might call a good liver. I saw his portraits. The anecdote I am about to relate will sound queer. But it was the first time that I had any inkling regarding the marchioness’s peculiar intellect.
“Christine was not there, and I found myself to be rather uneasy, for it was the second time that I had entered the mansion without meeting a living soul. Of course, I do not count that little cat Shing-shing and the caryatid Sangor to be living souls. I did not dare touch anything, and, to calm my impatience, I endeavored to fix my attention on four portraits, which represented the father, the grandfather, the great-grandfather, and the great-great-grandfather of my host — in fact, the whole series of the Coulteray line leading back to Louis XV. The other ancestors, it appeared, were hung in the gallery on the first floor. But these were enough for me to study for the moment.
“These four portraits offered me a study of the history of the masculine garb in France stretching over a period of several hundred years, with this queer peculiarity that all the different clothes seemed to be worn by the same person, so remarkable was the resemblance between these Coulterays, fathers and sons.
“It was not only their manner, but, if I dare say so, even their very tone seemed to be repeated. In short, behind the frills and the Louis XV coat; behind the cravat, coat, and English gaiters of the sixties; behind the long topcoat and big collar of the time of Charles X, and behind the coat of the Second Empire, one could see the same Coulteray — florid, large nose, sensual, fleshy mouth, but which had lines of certain firmness; eyes of a disturbing fire; a strong jaw; a somewhat strong but narrow forehead; thick eyebrows which met; and, added to all that, an air of boldness which seemed to proclaim almost insolently, ‘The world belongs to me.’
“The glance that I had obtained of the present marquis in a swiftly moving car was too fleeting for me to say whether he, as much as the others, continued to s
how the great resemblance to his great-great-grandfather, and I murmured aloud: ‘The portrait of Georges-Marie-Vincent is not here.’
“But I had scarcely uttered my thought aloud when a voice from somewhere behind me said:
“‘He is there!’
“I turned around. The marchioness, still shivering in her furs, was standing beside me. I bowed.
“‘Don’t you see him?’ she asked rather quietly.
“‘No,’ I said in a low voice, somewhat astonished at the way in which she had spoken, for she appeared to be in some sort of a trance, with her eyes wide open. ‘Where is he?’
“‘Where? Why, there!’
“And she pointed with her finger to the four portraits.
“‘Which one?’ I asked again, more and more surprised.
“‘No matter which one,’ she replied in a whisper.
“Then, as though it had been some great effort which had proven too much for her, she dropped into an armchair.
“And at this moment the door opened, and the marquis entered.
“I do not know if he saw his wife. I don’t think he did. She was so placed that it would have been easy for him not to have seen her. But, in any case, she made no movement. She sat there, crouching in her corner, holding her breath, like a little frightened white animal. As soon as I had this close view of the marquis I understood what she meant when she said, ‘No matter which one.’ It is quite true that he resembles ‘no matter which one’ of those four in a line on the wall.
“‘This is M. Masson, is it not?’ he asked. ‘Well, I am very pleased to meet you. Mlle. Norbert has often spoken of you, and I am indeed obliged to you for being willing to give me a little of your time. As you see, you will have plenty to do, and can keep quite busy here. I see you are looking at the Coulterays. They are quite well worth studying. They don’t look as though they were bored, those fine fellows.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 388