Just imagine, he lived in the swamps like a real savage, like Father Violette himself, only worse dressed when women were not there, sleeping in the open air, letting hours go by without moving, crouching in the rushes as if he were lying in wait, and yet he never hunted or fished. He was an enigma. And sometimes he talked aloud to himself. Father Violette had heard him!
So what had this bird on his brain? If he were not mad, it must be some crime.
Father Violette had drawn this conclusion as soon as he had made sure that Benedict Masson did not indulge in poaching, as he himself did.
“For,” said he to himself, “what else is there to do but poach? I’m afraid that chap is thinking up some crime.”
Once this idea was fixed, one can imagine the impression produced on Father Violette’s mind by the odd disappearances of those women who succeeded one another in the bookbinder’s house.
More than a week had passed since Benedict Masson had again installed himself at Corbillieres, taking up his life as a solitary, when, one evening, Father Violette went into the kitchen of the Green Tree Inn, which overlooked a landscape on the slope of the other side of the hill, that had nothing in common with the watery plain of Corbillieres, and from where could be seen, through the green foliage, parts of the wall surrounding the Two Doves, the estate which the Marquis de Coulteray had bought for his mistress, Dorga — a royal gift indeed.
The Green Tree Inn stood on the outskirts of the wood, facing the setting sun. It was sheltered on the north by a magnificent beech tree, and had a gateway, a courtyard, stables, a carriage shed — which was used as a garage sometimes — apple trees, and a vegetable garden fenced around with rails. Over the door grew a grapevine from which hung bunches of green grapes, affording a shadowy arbor. Mother Mouche, a good hostess, was always in excellent humor, since a fortunate death had removed her roguish husband, who, having spent his time drinking — using up all her revenue, to say nothing of the profits — had died from the effects of a debauch.
Father Violette was always welcome at the Green Tree Inn. He was the occult purveyor of certain clandestine repasts, such as one generally eats when forbidden by just laws. People came from a distance to partake of the delicacies of the Green Tree Inn — specialties of stewed fish and stewed rabbits, and a certain kind of stuffed pike that was basted with sour wine while baking, which had made Mother Mouche famous.
And as for discretion — well! One could come with a lady without being stopped at the door by a demand for your marriage certificate, and no one listened at the doors. No — it was not that sort of a house.
CHAPTER XXVII
LIKE A WILD BEAST
WHEN FATHER VIOLETTE went into the kitchen, Mother Mouche was busy at her stoves. He did not even say good day, nor good evening, nor anything. He just dropped down into a seat by the corner of the fire and lit his pipe with a red-hot coal held at the end of the tongs. Then he looked at the flames and spat on the hearth.
“Well,” Mother Mouche said finally, “your Benedict, has he taken himself off the floor?”
“The floor!” What a funny way to speak of the marshes of Corbillieres; but Mother Mouche had never been very near to them, and she was quite excusable, for she ignored the marshes. She had never even seen them. Having always been told that the place from which Father Violette brought so many good things was very ugly, she had never even had the courage to climb up to the woods on top of the hill to see what they really looked like.
However, for several years she had been hearing about this lonely man, who insisted on living there against the will of Father Violette, and in spite of Father Violette. Yes, the old gamekeeper had kept her well informed about this monster of ugliness, who had chosen this solitary abode where he could draw women and assassinate them. This being the base of all Father Violette’s thoughts, he had not hidden it from Mother Mouche; but, naturally, he had told it to her under the seal of the greatest secrecy. She only laughed at him. Mother Mouche laughed at every thing since her husband had passed away.
“What a funny face you are making, Violette!” she cried. “There must be something new stirring around your hut, eh? You look all upset. Perhaps a glass of fresh wine will help you straighten out.”
“Yes, give us a drink, Mother Mouche. Then I will tell you all. The seventh has arrived!”
“What seventh?”
Father Violette shrugged his shoulders. “What seventh, say you? You know well what I mean. Yes, and I will stick to my idea that this poor little thing will disappear in the same way as the others, and that there will be no more questions asked about her than if she never had existed. But this time won’t be like the others, for I’ll be there.”
Mother Mouche continued to laugh.
“Yes, you’ll be there all right! You’re always there! I suppose he’ll have to be asking your permission, you jealous old thing!”
And she poured him something to drink, but Father Violette pushed the glass aside — a rare event for him.
“We’ll see if you joke like that the day I bring you the proof. I’ll just have to get one proof, and the rest will all coincide.”
“Well,” said Mother Mouche, laughing, “he has to put ’em somewhere, that’s sure, unless he eats them.”
“Stop your humbug! I tell you they didn’t take the train back. And that’s one proof.”
“Well, maybe they went back by the road. Since you tell me that he is so ugly, I don’t see what there is to keep them working for him in such a lonely spot. Perhaps they were afraid and ran away.”
“Afraid! I should say that they were afraid!”
“Did they tell you so?”
“The last one did.” He took up his glass and emptied it at a gulp, to give him courage and clear his ideas. “The last one, who stayed nearly three weeks — I was able to talk to her, and she told me about Benedict.”
“She was afraid — and yet she stayed three weeks?”
“Yes; that was the reason she stayed.”
“She stayed because she was afraid? She was a funny sort of girl. Go on, now. One can as easily believe that the two of them came to an understanding. And you say she disappeared like the others — flew off — went? It ain’t to be believed. But maybe she went back to Paris.”
“No, I investigated that, I did. I knew her name, that one, so I was able to find out where she lived. Her name was Catherine Belle, and she sure was a belle. She was a fine girl. If I had wanted, I could have soon gotten her away from Benedict. She wasn’t afraid of me.
“But no one ever saw her again. I tell you, I can’t understand it. The first time I spoke to her was one evening when I was prowling around the house. I saw a form escaping, running away. Then the door opened, and Benedict appeared and began to call in a kind of imploring voice: ‘Catherine! Catherine!’
“But Catherine didn’t move. She was hiding behind a clump of reeds just a few steps away from me, only she didn’t know that I was there. Benedict called her again, in an angry voice, and when she didn’t answer he went back in and slammed the door.
“Catherine got up then and ran in the direction of the station. I followed and caught up with her, just as she was getting terrified by the dark.
“‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said to her. ‘I am here. I am Father Violette, the gamekeeper. What has that wretch done to you now?’
“‘Oh, nothing,’ she said; ‘only I’m afraid of him. He has done nothing — on the contrary, he has been very nice.’
“I sneered.
“‘You’re the sixth one,’ I said, ‘that he’s been very nice to, and they’ve all gone.’
“‘That’s what he told me.’
“‘They all went at the end of twenty-four hours, or two days, or three days. You have been here eight days. You’ve got patience.’
“‘He told me that, also.’
“‘Why do you stay?’
“‘Because he is so unhappy. Poor fellow, he’s to be pitied! He weeps! I am sorry for him.’
>
“‘And you’ve had enough now?’
“She didn’t answer.
“‘Why did you run away this evening?’
“‘Because he wanted to kiss me.’
“‘He’s got taste,’ I said; ‘but I understand that you might be a bit disgusted.’
“She was silent. Then I said to her: ‘If you want to take the ten forty train, you’ve no time to lose.’
“‘No, no,’ she said quickly. ‘It is childish. I’ll go back.’
“‘Where?’
“‘Why, to him.’
“‘What, to Benedict Masson?’
“‘Yes.’
“I was flabbergasted.
“‘Listen,’ I said, ‘you’re wrong, you’re quite wrong, and, mind what I tell you, you’ll be sorry for it. That fellow there has got his mind on some crime.’ “She thought for a moment, then said: ‘That’s true; at times I have said that myself.’
“‘And yet you’re going back?’
“‘Yes, just to see. Bah! It always ends with tears. Really, at the bottom of it all, he isn’t dangerous.’ “And she went back to the house in spite of all that I had said. I might just as well have been singing to amuse her. And yet she said she was afraid of him. Surely, you never know women.
“The following days you can bet that I watched them, my two turtle doves. It was enough to make you split your sides. The gentleman dressed himself up, the monster was making himself handsome. He put on his city clothes, and a tie and a hat. Then he chatted to her.
“She evidently was playing with him, even though she was afraid. But I suppose she wanted to know just how far he would carry the affair. I am of the opinion that she learned it to her cost. And that her curiosity didn’t bring her any good luck.
“About ten days later he was alone again, sometimes walking around through the swamp with a terrible look on his face, sometimes throwing himself in the hammock, growling like a crazy animal and biting the cord. He ain’t a Christian, that man; he ain’t. I felt like laying him out with a shot.”
“Now Father Violette,” said Mother Mouche, “no nonsense! Who is the little one who just arrived?”
“A mere child. She ain’t more than seventeen. But he ain’t goin’ to touch that one, for I’ll be actin’ as a police officer. Don’t laugh, Mother Mouche. This time, at the first alarm, I’ll denounce him. He’s got to give an explanation.”
“Where did the little one come from?”
“She must come from Barrichon; she looks like a country girl. She calls him uncle.”
“Maybe he’s really her uncle.”
“Maybe! Anyway, he ain’t going to any trouble for her. He ain’t dressed himself up like a gentleman. He rather treats her like a little servant. He makes her do his errands. The baker doesn’t bring his provisions any more. No one ever comes to the house. He’s even sent away that old sloven who used to go there a couple of hours every morning to do his housework. They live quite alone, the two of them, away from everybody, sure of not being disturbed by anybody. The little one’s neither ugly nor pretty. Her name’s Annie.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“Yes, this afternoon I asked her if she liked our swamps. She replied: ‘Why shouldn’t I like them? My uncle is very kind to me.’ Those were her very words.
“‘So much the better if he is good to you,’ I remarked. ‘He hasn’t been very good to all those who came before you.’
“She seemed surprised at what I told her, then she went off quite thoughtful like, without saying anything more. So I called out after her: ‘Ask him about them. Ask your uncle where they’ve gone.’ And then she started running and didn’t stop till she got to the house.”
“That’ll end up bad for you,” said Mother Mouche. “You’re very wrong to mix up in what doesn’t concern you, Father Violette. Meantime, drink up your wine.”
“The devil! Here he comes!”
“Who?”
“Our neighbor.”
And Father Violette jumped up and grabbed for his stick as though to defend himself from some dreaded animal.
Mother Mouche poked her nose out of the window.
“Good Heavens!” she exclaimed. “It’s the truth; he ain’t very handsome.”
Benedict Masson was coming through the courtyard. The appearance of this man in the twilight was sinister.
He came out of the wood like some wild beast from its lair, and his manner of turning his nose in all directions, as if he were seeking some prey to devour, made one shudder. Suddenly he noticed the landlady of the inn and the gamekeeper, who was eying him behind her. The landlady was gazing at him with fear and Father Violette with hostility.
He entered the kitchen without hesitation.
“You!” he exclaimed, addressing the gamekeeper without preamble. “I want to speak to you, and if you’ll follow me it won’t take long.”
Father Violette sat down again on the bench, affecting a disdainful coolness.
“I have nothing to say to you,” he replied.
Mother Mouche was far from being at ease. She had a dinner to prepare for the people from the “Two Doves,” who were expected to arrive that same evening at the villa, where no preparations had been made to receive them. And she would have liked to have sent the two men to five hundred devils. Only, like many others, she was afraid of Benedict Masson.
CHAPTER XXVIII
AN EMPTY LIFE
“GO AND SETTLE it out in the arbor,” she suggested.
But Father Violette didn’t budge. He called for more wine.
“Listen, Father Violette,” said Benedict Masson, “if you want to drink with me, it’s up to you, but we’ve got to have an understanding between us. This country is big enough for both of us, but we cannot continue to live like this, annoying one another.”
“So I annoy you?” said the gamekeeper.
Benedict Masson sat down on a stool and replied:
“Yes.”
“Then, have I got to disappear too?” began the gamekeeper boldly.
Then he was silent, for, before he had finished his phrase, the other raised his head and glared at him with eyes that seemed to scorch. Then the flame died out, his head drooped again on his chest, and Benedict Masson said, in a sullen voice:
“I know what you’re telling everywhere. You’d better keep quiet, Father Violette. I’ve had enough of it. Well, yes, they have gone! I cannot keep a work girl; I cannot keep any one near me. I frighten all — everybody. Just now madame was afraid. Permit me to speak, madame. I am pleased to endeavor to explain myself to you. You may, perhaps, make Father Violette understand that he must hold his tongue.
“There is nothing mysterious. I have never done harm to any one. You have only to look at me to understand that I do not have to harm them to make them leave me. I did not come here to be spiteful.
I have only come to tell Father Violette that I have with me at present a young girl, a little niece, an orphan, whom I have befriended.
“I do not repel her very much, and she wants to stay with me as a maid. She was very unhappy when quite young and is grateful for what I can do for her. So, then, Father Violette, you must not turn her against me.”
“All what you’ve said is none of my business,” growled the gamekeeper.
The landlady slipped a glass in front of Benedict Masson.
“The gentleman is right,” she declared, emptying the rest of the wine in the glass. “There is no sense for you two to live on bad terms with each other, seeing you have to live in the same place. Come, drink each other’s health, shake hands, and let there be an end to it.”
But Father Violette remained obstinate and repeated:
“That’s none of my business — it’s nothing to do with me.”
Benedict Masson pushed his glass aside, rose to his feet, and, standing before the gamekeeper, said in a hoarse voice:
“Very well, if it’s none of your business, hold your tongue when the little girl passes near you; h
old your tongue, Father Violette. Because I am going to tell you this — if this one goes like the others, who also, perhaps, left on your account and your gossip, I shall hold you responsible. Life means nothing to me, so why should I care? I’ll kill you like a dog.”
And having said this he went off, with a brief nod to the landlady, crossed the courtyard, entered the wood, and disappeared in the shadows.
“Listen,” said Mother Mouche to Father Violette, “that man is all wrought up. I hope for your sake that the seventh will remain.”
CHAPTER XXIX
NEWS FROM THE MARCHIONESS
FIRST LETTER— “MY dear Christine, I write because I have no hope now, but in you, in you and Monsieur Benedict Masson — a very feeble hope, alas! Now that I am so far from you, how may I convince you of my only too real misfortune — when you would not believe it even when I was stricken before your eyes.
“No, Christine, it is not an insane woman who writes to you. It is not a monomaniac, who is dying of a fixed obsession, as you have so long thought, as you undoubtedly still believe — otherwise you would not have allowed them to take me away, you would not have abandoned me to my executioner.
“It is the most unhappy of creatures, whose life is being stolen each day, each night, drop by drop; it is the victim of a monster who has already devoured generations, and who seeks his nourishment from the veins which he drains by his insatiable bites.
“Do not smile, Christine, in the sad way which I have seen so often. Why will you not believe me, you, who have seen me? Why will you not believe my dying testimony?
“The word ‘vampire,’ when I first spoke it before you, only appeared to you to be a vague phantom of my sick imagination — and yet! — and yet! — it was right there among us in flesh and bone.
“Christine! Christine! In this way vampires have existed. I admit that they are disappearing little by little from the surface of the earth, pursued, tracked to the depth of their funereal dens. But why can you not believe that at least one of these cursed beings has survived?
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 396