Seated in his taxi, Hippothadee felt very uncomfortable. It was fortunate, he thought, that he was unknown in La Fourca, since he had visited it but once before. However, these people might have seen him at the wedding, and he was not anxious to linger among them. At length, the taxi started again and the incident appeared to be over when a group of young men suddenly surrounded it, and called on the driver to shout: “Down with the ‘tyrant’!”
The driver, who knew nothing of the circumstances, began to show great irritation against these hotheads.
“Are you going to let me get on, you pack of savages?” he shouted.
They were about to make a rush on him when the Prince, impelled by a sense of danger, lowered the window and yelled: “Down with the ‘tyrant’!” Thereupon, they cheered him lustily and the taxi was allowed to proceed.
On arrival at La Patentaine the gate was opened, after a parley, by the scared figure of Madame Cioasa, the concierge. She closed the gate again without a word, and the Prince strode to the villa, whose dark mass could be seen at the end of the garden.
Madame Cioasa scarcely ever spoke, and from the time of a mysterious incident in her life, which occurred in her young days, she had led an entirely solitary existence. It had happened when she was twenty years of age, and she was no worse looking than the average girl. She kept house for her brother and they lived in a small cottage on the outskirts. Her brother began to cut a figure at Grasse before he became chief cashier at Bella Nissa stores. He treated her with scant consideration and never spoke a kindly word to her. She had small love for him.
It was then that she had made the acquaintance of Michel Pincalvin — the facts were fully elicited in the subsequent trial that filled the newspapers for some six months. Michel Pincalvin was then a more than ordinarily sharp youth, and he knew how to talk to young girls. He was a traveler in perfumery, and was an adept at telling the tale. Rumor had it that Mlle. Supia had failed to resist his blandishments. He left the district shortly afterwards to settle in Arles, where his business was a failure. He never returned to La Fourca and the incident was forgotten.
Meanwhile Madame Cioasa had utterly changed. She was only to be seen on Sundays when she went to mass at St. Helene church. She spoke to no one. She had no inclination to dress herself suitably, and her hair was always in disorder under the kerchief that covered her head.
At that time she remained indoors for weeks together. It was said that she was ill. The explanation was plausible. Mother Bruno, commonly called Boccio, who was as round as a tub, hunchbacked and looked upon as the witch of the place, spent some days in her house. She certainly knew more about her than anyone else. But it was a part of her business to be close-tongued, and no one asked her any questions. Boccio undertook every sort of task, pleasant and unpleasant. She tended the lepers in Eze, performed the last offices to the dead, acted as midwife. In a word she always was sent for in moments of difficulty. She was now a very old woman with nothing plump about her but her hump.
But to return to Hippothadee hurrying across the lawn. Night was falling and, in ordinary circumstances, he would have been surprised to observe the absence of lights. As things were, he imagined that the villa showed a dark face on account of the procession and the hostile cries that went up from it. He was not mistaken. He had but to knock, and make himself known, to be welcomed as a deliverer. Thélise and her daughter Caroline were shut up in the place without a servant, quaking with fear. They made a rush on him, after carefully closing the door.
“Take us back,” cried Thélise. “Take us back. We are terrified. Did you hear them? We’ve never done anything to them.”
“The same here,” said the Prince, striking a match. “They refused to allow me to pass until I had shouted: ‘Down with the “tyrant”!’”
“Ah, Prince, it’s a good thing they didn’t knock you about,” wailed Thélise.
The Prince was not thinking any more of that affront. His mind was on the necklace, of which he wished to rid himself. He had observed when he entered the room that Thélise was wearing the paste necklace with as much pride as though it were the real one, and he half-glimpsed the tactics which he would have to pursue when Caroline had left them.
“What put it into your head to come and shut yourselves up in this hole? Why are you in La Fourca?”
They both reddened and then Thélise said with a sigh: “What about you, Prince? Can you tell us to what we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“I was longing to see you, that’s all.”
Caroline darted a look at him in which she put her whole soul. But the brigand did not even notice her. Thélise reddened still more and bit her lips.
“We don’t believe a word of it,” she said.
Hippothadee took her hand.
“I am not at all happy, believe me.”
“We are not asking for confidences,” said Thélise with dignity.
Caroline could restrain herself no longer. She rose to her feet and, without a word, hurried from the room. “What’s the matter with her?” asked Hippothadee. “The matter is that since your silly marriage she hasn’t left off crying. It was she who wanted to come here. And I needed no pressing to come with her. Ah, your Antoinette.... I hate her, Hippothadee.”
“Thélise.... Thélise.... You know I love you... Thélise’s breath came unevenly.
“Hold your tongue. No lies, if you please. Suppose the poor little thing heard you! No, don’t kiss me, you are a monster.... Why did I ever listen to you. I am ashamed of myself, Hippothadee. But, heavens above, how can one resist you. I have not been able to sleep for ever so many nights. Sleeplessness hurts my eyes. I, too, cry when I am alone. Yes, and let me tell you I’ve never suffered so much in my life before.”
“Thélise!”
“All the same you did well to come down. This solitude with only the two of us here and our troubles is more depressing than anything. Still she — she can cry in my arms. But I — I must keep a watch on myself. My sorrow must seem to be hers. I have to lie to her. Why am I not dead? We were within an ace of it.”
“I am here, Thélise.”
“Good heavens, how scared I was when they shouted: ‘Down with the “tyrant”!’”
“Now that I am with you, you need have no fear.”
“Take me back at once, Hippothadee.”
“I sent the taxi away and was quite right to do so. The roads are not safe to-night. And, besides, I thought you wouldn’t refuse me hospitality for one night,” he said, kissing her fat, over-manicured hands.
Thélise now nervously clasped his hand. She was greatly embarrassed, shaking her head, turning towards him her bloated face, like that of a Roman emperor.
“Oh, you monster!”
For the moment it was all she could say, but she emphasized it. She gave him a smart rap on the knuckles. He had no need of any explanation, but she went on: “You will have the spare room. But be careful for Caroline’s sake. Her room is upstairs at the end of the passage. Mine is here on the ground floor. You will only have to come downstairs. Poor girl! She has used up six handkerchiefs since this morning.”
“Are you sure she suspects nothing?”
“Nothing, or it would be the death of me. How weak I am where you are concerned.”
“I have something to tell you. I saw the ‘tyrant’ before I left.”
“Forgive me for interrupting you. Have you brought me the necklace?”
“What — you know!”
“Yes, he wrote and told me. Look, here’s his letter. What a wretch!”
“He deserves all he gets,” said the Prince coolly, after reading the letter and putting it into his pocket.
“Yes,” agreed Thélise, in a tone of indignation, rewarded with a kiss on the ear. “Just that! He accuses you of theft. What answer did you make?”
“Why the truth. What would you have me tell him? I have had a lot to put up with on your account, my poor dear. I thought at one time he suspected you of being in leag
ue with me in this business.”
“Believe me, I should have been only too pleased. You are too fastidious. You were afraid to tell me that you were in need of money.”
“That is so.”
“My goodness, how long are you going to be secretive with me? You should have had confidence. Everyone is short of money at times. I see the whole thing. You said to yourself: ‘I won’t ask Thélise. She mustn’t think I am trying to worm money out of her. I’ll get a loan on the necklace, give her another like it, but not so fine, and return the original one when I am in funds.’ Am I not right, my Hippothadee?”
“Quite right. But try to explain that to the ‘tyrant’! Do you know what he did? He redeemed the necklace at my expense. Now he intends to deduct the cost of it from my monthly allowance — in other words, leave me penniless.”
“But he gave you back the necklace.”
“Well, that was the least he could do! He asked me what I was going to do with it. I told him: ‘I shall give it to Mme. Supia.’ And here it is. It is yours!”
So saying the Prince drew the necklace from his pocket and gave it to her with the same simple gesture as though he were offering her a bunch of violets.
“I won’t take it,” cried Thélise admiringly, with a catch in her breath. “Ah, there you have the Prince! He hasn’t a sou and he gives me a necklace worth two hundred thousand francs. Ah, the poor man!” And she subsided in his arms, in tears. He valiantly supported her, and no less valiantly insisted on her accepting the necklace. She agreed only after he had sworn never to see her again if she refused to accept it. But at the end of the scene she all but fell at his feet.
“You are much too good-hearted,” she sobbed. “How do you expect to be anything but poor? You marry a million, and the day after your wedding you haven’t a sou in your pocket, and yet you contrive to give me a necklace worth two hundred thousand francs!”
At that moment Caroline returned to the room. She had drawn on her seventh handkerchief.
“Caroline, do you know what your father has done to the Prince?” said her mother. “The Prince borrowed some money on my necklace. He has made him pay the full value of it. The Prince has just given me the necklace and your father calls him a thief!”
Caroline straightway shared her mother’s indignation, and the “tyrant” was once more held up to execration by his wife and his daughter. Worn out by the scene, Thélise declared that she would go to bed early. The Prince’s room was prepared. They all had supper in the kitchen, so as not to trouble Madame Cioasa, and to remain undisturbed. Then they retired to their respective rooms.
The Prince said nothing about Antoinette, though she was in their thoughts. He made himself most agreeable to Caroline. And she drew the conclusion that, as her mother had anticipated, the newly married couple would not be long together, and her own turn would come. She fell asleep and dreamed of leaving St. Reparate Church on the arm of Hippothadee.
CHAPTER XXI
HARDIGRAS COMES TO LIFE AGAIN
AT THAT VERY hour, M. Supia, delighted with his day’s work, entered his flat rubbing his hands after indulging in an extra good dinner in town, a thing that he had not done for many a long day.
On his desk lay his mail. He began to open it with no great interest when suddenly his eyes fell on certain capital letters absent from his table of late. He gave a start. Whence came the letter? From beyond the grave, doubtless, since Hardigras was dead! He deciphered the postmark, his forehead streaming. It came from La Fourca. Greatly unnerved he tore open the envelope. The paper was covered with those ominous capital letters, and the text of the letter, made public later in the Criminal Court, was as follows:
“Monsieur Supia, You have apparently forgotten the communication that I entrusted Titin to make to you when he brought back Mlle. Agagnosc to your flat. He warned you that whatever the course of events might be, there must be no further question of any marriage between Mlle. Agagnosc and Prince Hippothadee, and that he would hold you and your family responsible with their lives if any undue pressure were brought to bear upon her. To-day, through your manoeuvres, Mlle. Agagnosc, to her misfortune and yours, has become Princess of Transylvania, Hardigras has never broken his word.”
M. Supia drew himself up on his long legs, trembling all over. He picked up his letters, stuffed them feverishly into his ‘ pocket, and rushed out like a person distraught.
He descended to the delivery department.
“Has the van started for La Fourca?” he shouted.
“Not yet. It is still loading up.”
“All right. Tell Castel that I’m going with him.”
The motor van in question covered the entire district between La Fourca, Grasse, and La Vallée du Loup. It loaded up in the evening with the day’s orders. But Castel, the driver, did not start off with his goods until after dinner. The van usually reached La Fourca about eleven o’clock at night, and Castel put it up at La Patentaine, himself sleeping in an out-building, at the rear of the villa. He had a special key with which he opened the main gate of the farm, and no one ever paid any heed to his comings and goings. Even Mme. Cioasa never saw him. He began his deliveries at an early hour and was back again in Nice in the evening before dinner time. Castel knew nothing of what had occurred during the preceding days, nor of what was about to occur that night at La Patentaine.
In the basement M. Supia recovered, in part, his calmness. The cool air from outside, sweeping through the subway with the parcels intended for Castel’s van, refreshed him. He took time to think. His alarm had been instinctive. He believed so implicitly that he had done with Hardigras for ever. He withdrew to a corner, and read his letters by the light of a lantern. What new discovery had he made? He did not finish reading them. He ran over to the staff. They had never before seen him in such a state. He hustled them, lent a hand in their work, went out, and mounted the seat beside Castel.
“Off we go, and drive as fast as you can,” he cried. The van swung forward at top speed. An hour later they reached the plain on the edge of which loomed the great crag of La Vieille Fourca. The light of a fire showed on the skyline, the tower, the high gate, and a jumble of small buildings standing close together and rising tier above tier as though about to storm what remained of the castle. The fire was at the base and came from La Fourca Nova.
“Damn it, one might almost think it was La Patentaine,” gasped M. Supia.
“No, La Patentaine is farther to the right,” said Castel.
“What can have happened?” asked Supia in a voice strained with anxiety.
Castel slowed down for the road was becoming difficult.
“You can never tell. Since this Titin business they have all gone mad. Did you know Nathalie has disappeared?”
“I don’t care a hang about her,” growled the “tyrant.”
“Nor do I,” returned Castel. “But I’m only telling you how things are. The other day the La Torre people led by Bolacion came up against Giaousé and his gang. Giaousé had to pretend he was delighted that Nathalie had left him. Bolacion went on to pull his leg about it as usual, and hinted that Nathalie had chosen a good time to go away since Titin had gone too.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.... Can’t you put on more speed?”
“Are you anxious to break your neck? To return to Giaousé and Bolacion. That was enough. They came to blows. The La Fourca people got the worst of it. Yesterday, Bolacion’s house in La Torre was burnt down. It may have been an accident. They say it was done out of revenge by the La Fourca people. And to-day it is La Fourca which is on fire. Such a quiet place, too, for so many years! It is all Titin’s fault. The unfortunate part is that no one knows what the end of it will be. Meantime he and his Nathalie must be laughing up their sleeves.”
“Shut up Castel. Don’t ever say such things. Titin is a terrible fellow. He has already done me a lot of harm, and I fear he is going to do me a great deal more, worse luck.”
“Yes, guv’nor, I see there’s something
the matter. You look very upset.”
“See how the fire is blazing over there. Do you hear the tocsin? It’s ominous....”
It was indeed ominous this nocturnal landscape wrested from its peace and darkness by a flame which rose high on the horizon. Now flashing rocks, old walls, a part of the tower almost completely destroyed, became visible, while in the foreground the dark shadows of clumps of writhing olive trees stood out and the twisted limbs of fig-trees drooped in torment over the crimson-colored road. And above it all sounded the mournful tones of the tocsin in La Fourca, echoed throughout the plain and valley by other and more distant notes, lamenting the desolation of the hour.
M. Supia and Castel had kept silent. The van itself seemed to hesitate to plunge still farther into the fantastic wilderness.
“Did you hear those cries!” suddenly asked Supia. “Are you sure they don’t come from La Patentable?”
“Quite sure, guv’nor. The road makes a bend yonder you know. That’s what’s deceiving you.”
“When I think that my wife and daughter are there!”
“If that’s what’s worrying you don’t be afraid. I know the boys of La Fourca and they never interfere with women.”
“No matter, I’m not easy about them. As it happened I asked Prince Hippothadee to go to them. You can say what you like, but he’s no coward.”
“I couldn’t tell you guv’nor. I don’t mix with him.”
“Have you got your revolver, Castel?”
“Me with a revolver in this place! What should I do with a revolver? For the time being there are differences between these people, and it’s a nuisance to everyone, but as I don’t meddle in their business I have no cause to worry.”
“I always carry my revolver.”
“Oh, that’s another matter. You have enemies.”
“I know quite well that I’m not popular round here.
Therefore I come here as little as I can. And jet I’ve done nothing to them. But Titin has worked them up against me.”
In the distance the uproar became louder. They could hear cries, with an insistent clamor.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 426