Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

“He bought the shop.”

  “He possesses a talent for business. He made himself master of it as soon as might be. Since it has been in his hands, it has become a smart and fashionable shop. We have had no lack of pretty hats or pretty girls. People go there to take tea. He has made it a sort of miniature quarter of Paris.”

  “With these savages you never can tell what will happen,” said Irene. “But I should have thought they would have shown more heart and less business capacity. The shop must bring back a cruel memory.”

  “He retains it, perhaps, to teach him the lesson that a man like himself must remain free and beware of women who trim hats and things, or else he is more sentimental than we imagine, and determined to keep this shop in which he glimpsed a vision of happiness.”

  They had reached the prefect’s house some time before. The function was about to commence. It did not last long, and the toasts were proposed in such glowing language that they could not have been more flattering had they been addressed to an ambassador. Irene was greatly touched, and in a few warmly applauded words accepted them as a tribute to France, her country.

  She imagined that the function was over, but the prefect took her by the arm and told her that he was driving her to the Botanical Gardens where a final surprise lay in store for her.

  “Don Manoel de Carangola is the instigator of it,” he said.” That is why you have not seen him here this evening. It was his idea, and he will reap the benefit,” he added in an undertone with a mysterious smile not devoid of bitterness.

  On hearing these words and observing that smile, Irene was brought down to earth again.

  CHAPTER VIII

  IN WHICH THE KING OF THE PATAGONIANS IS SEEN IN THE FLESH

  THE BOTANICAL GARDENS were a blaze of light. Marquees not less spacious than the naves of a cathedral had been set up. Here and there luminous fountains played whose golden water seemed to spring from an inexhaustible source. An agreeable and polished society roamed about the grounds. No bad taste in the manners of the men or the dresses of the women. No showy jewels, no stars or decorations. A refined society of courtiers around its sovereign guest.

  That was the spectacle on which Irene’s eyes fell, but she was conscious that the same thought dwelt in all those eyes fixed upon her — the same horrible thought which had been so well expressed by the prefect’s ambiguous smile. Alas, why should the folly, the criminal childishness of a man who knew life only from books, disturb that memorable hour and compel her to blush for a display of sympathy which, at first, had filled her with pride in herself and country? For, in truth, these people were not so much honouring the famous actress as their own triumph: the triumph of one of their sons over Irene’s scruples.

  It meant that what was being lauded to the skies that night was the gift which she had made of herself to the city.... Oh, the shame of it! That was the thought in their minds. It was a thought beyond all bearing. It was this thing which Don Manoel had allowed them to believe. Those lips which hitherto had known but the delight of words — those untouched lips which had refused even a “soul’s kiss” — Irene bit them till the blood came. Those nails whose colour hitherto had come from the art of the manicurist were itching to claw....

  Just then Don Manoel appeared more smiling than ever. From the distance he made a sign of understanding to her which was not easy to follow, but each person interpreted it in his own way. Irene pretended not to see him, and making supreme efforts to conceal her irritation, bent towards the prefect and said:

  “Don’t you think it’s rather warm?”

  “We will go into the gardens,” he returned. “Besides, Don Manoel has just signalled that the hour has come, and we do not oppose Don Manoel.”

  This last blow completely dazed our national Celimene. She allowed herself to be led away, dreaming of endless torments to which in imagination she consigned Don Manoel.

  The fresh air restored the colour to her cheeks. When she appeared a tremendous shout rose to the stars and nearer her numberless lights blazed out. These were, if we may say so in speaking of Brazil, countless Chinese lanterns which a huge concourse of students and others were waving in her honour.

  Under Don Manoel’s leadership the procession filed past her, brandishing on high not only their Chinese lanterns but the Brazilian and French flags so interwoven that their colours blended. At this sight Irene’s heart was touched, and she almost forgave Don Manoel, so greatly her patriotism got the better of every other feeling.

  The crowd’s joyous clamour soon broke into a song which she knew, for she had often heard Don Manoel chant it. But to-night the last line rang out like the strains of a brass band:

  “Love makes our hearts beat faster!”

  And when the song was finished amid a general outburst of enthusiasm, a shout again and again renewed went up calling upon him to fulfil his duty: “The accolade! The accolade!”

  Don Manoel stood before her, his eyes aglow, more smiling than ever. And she had to submit to the accolade while a murmur came from the lips which touched her cheek: “I have had my soul’s kiss!”

  She turned her back on him and seized at random the first arm that came within her grasp.

  “Take me to the gardens, I’m stifling,” she said.

  The arm could not choose but obey. It took her under the giant palms, under the roof of the swaying bamboos arched like the dome of a Gothic cathedral, in the picturesque entanglement of the camphor fig and mangosteen trees, far from the festal scene into the solitude for which she longed.

  It was an understanding arm, and that in itself was something for an arm. And yet Irene was surprised to hear no word spoken; and she lifted her eyes to discover to whom this arm belonged.

  It was the property of an extremely handsome man. His stature was considerably above the middle height, but there was nothing of the drum major about him. Great suppleness and a natural ease of manner characterized every movement of his splendidly proportioned form. He had a pale complexion with scarcely a trace of amber in it, and jet black hair; his keen brown eyes, shining at times with an extraordinary glitter, did not always convey the impression of frankness but of intense interest. Their light was veiled in a moment at will, like a lamp that is shaded. They were not, perhaps, less deep than still waters. Be that as it may, the eyes imparted to the face an unwonted animation. The face was a perfect oval with prominent brows; the outline of the chin and the slightly aquiline nose exhibited strength; the mouth revealed a disturbing peculiarity, for it seemed at once thin and fleshy. The lips were drawn in with not less ease than the gleam in the eyes was suppressed. He displayed a dazzling row of teeth which, when he smiled, imparted to his countenance a somewhat fierce charm.

  He was dressed by a first-class tailor. He wore no jewellery save a ring on the forefinger of his left hand set with a blue stone of fantastic pattern. He was clean shaven. His eyebrows formed a thin line as though marked with a pencil. He was a compound of strength and distinction.

  They had not introduced themselves. Irene asked her cavalier to whom she had the pleasure of speaking.

  “It is a pleasure to me that you are kind enough to interest yourself in so insignificant a person,” he returned in French, causing Irene to smile, for he was over six feet. “My name’ is Languequetrou.”

  “What! You are the king of the Patagonians.”

  “I’m heir presumptive, if you don’t mind, of Ouenetrou, king of the Patagonians.”

  Irene gazed at him in amazement.

  “You don’t look it, monsieur,” she said. “Had you said that you were a grand duke, I should have more easily believed you.”

  “Really! How is that?”

  “Heirs to the throne of Patagonia do not usually dress like you.”

  “No, not like me, senhora.”

  “Nor do they speak French with an accent peculiar to Montmartre. Where did you learn it?”

  “In my shop.”

  “In Mademoiselle Amanda’s society?”

  H
is eyes became veiled and he drew his lips in. “I don’t know Mademoiselle Amanda.”

  “Forgive me, monsieur. That was unpardonable. I know that you have greatly suffered.”

  “Yes,” he returned in a faint voice, “I have greatly suffered. Languequetrou means, in the language of my forefathers, ‘Sad heart.’”

  “Sad heart’!” echoed Irene. “I like the name. Prince, in future I will call you ‘Sad Heart.’”

  “Sad Heart or Languequetrou, as you please.”

  “And what does Ouenetrou mean?”

  “‘Splendid heart.’ With us we give the same name to God. To the Patagonians the king is God.”

  “I see. And when ‘Splendid Heart’ dies ‘Sad Heart’ will succeed him?”

  “Yes, senhora. I have quite recently received messages from those at court who remain faithful to me that my father cannot last many moons longer.”

  “And you will go back? You will leave this society to which you are so well suited, your prosperous plantations, your shop in the Rua do Ouvidor?...”

  “Yes, everything.... My car, my dear little steam yacht.”

  “Have you a steam yacht?”

  “Why should not Languequetrou have a steam yacht?”

  “Of course! You will tear yourself away from all this... for what?... For a few wigwams in the desert!”

  A peculiar but quickly veiled look flashed from the prince’s restless eyes.

  “Would you, senhora, really advise a Languequetrou to refuse to give up everything for his country?”

  He asked the question calmly, in a strained voice, which at once found an echo in the actress’s heart. Abashed at the result of allowing herself to be taken by surprise in this domain, she tried to retrieve her position. But this was not due to any selfish motive; the spontaneous impulse which almost threw her into the arms of this man was stimulated by her natural coquetry, always an asset to her when she wished to score over an obstinate adversary, or adopt those means which every pretty woman knows how to bring into play to efface the recollection of a clumsy word. With eyes aflame, and quivering bosom, her hands sought those of the Indian and held them prisoner in a grasp to which they were only too ready to submit.

  “Prince,” she cried, “you have a great soul. ‘Sad Heart’ may be your name, but you have a ‘splendid heart.’ Languequetrou is worthy to succeed Ouenetrou!”

  “Irene, we are only waiting for you to drink a glass of champagne,” interjected the voice of Don Manoel a few paces away.

  She could have killed him. Her companion could also have killed him, and would have done the work more effectively.

  “Tell the prefect that I will be with him in a moment,” she rapped out as though Don Manoel were an obtrusive servant.

  It was Languequetrou who now held her hands, and Don Manoel, noticing it, said in his most disagreeable tone that he was at her disposal to take her to the marquee. Incensed, she sent him away, declaring flatly that she did not look to him to tell her what her duty was. She assumed that he had been spying on them, which was true, and espionage was one of the things that made her sick at heart — war time excepted, of course.

  Don Manoel left them, his brain in a whirl, carrying with him the vision of those four hands locked together. Never had she clasped his hands like that, even under the statue of Goncalves Dias, in the enchanting shade of the Paseo Publico!

  When they could no longer hear the sound of his footsteps they resumed their conversation. She gently withdrew her hands, whereupon he slipped his arm round her waist.

  “Oh, prince, one does not do these things,” she said.

  “I was taught that this position is quite Parisian,” he returned, not easily disconcerted.

  “In some parts of Paris, and with work girls perhaps.”

  “I know what you mean,” said the prince, quickly withdrawing his arm, for which she was thankful, rewarding him with the smile which had made the fortune of Celimene. “You are a very famous actress,” he continued, “a very noble and learned, lady. I was at your lecture to-night, and I am at one with you, senhora, on the benefits of civilization.”

  Irene bowed at the princely compliment. To be sure this barbarian greatly pleased her. Had she looked at him at that moment she would have seen for herself from the gleam in his eyes, which shone like two black diamonds, that her liking was at least reciprocated. He bent over her, and she was conscious of his warm breath on her shoulder. That was in itself a serious warning of which she might have taken heed to end a conversation not without its disadvantages. But the thought that de Carangola was eyeing them behind some bushes and suffering tortures from this “aside,” induced her to have patience, especially as the obvious excitement of so uncommon a being — and of such splendid proportions — was perhaps not unwelcome to her. One does not meet a king of the Patagonians every day, and when coquettes are in no danger they love to make experiments. She had but a few steps to go, or to utter a cry, and she would be in the midst of an adoring crowd. Finally, it must not be forgotten that Languequetrou had declared his entire agreement with her on the benefits of civilization.

  “Senhora,” he said, in a voice broken by those pauses which, on the stage, are intended to emphasize the tumult of a heart, “senhora, I wanted to see you to-night to talk to you. I came from the theatre with my brain on fire. Here, I said to myself, is the woman to regenerate a people. She shall be queen of the Tehuelches, and our wigwams will become palaces.... I am rich, very rich! But what does Languequetrou care for riches if his people be poor? I have dreamed a dream! There lies beyond Rio Negro a country three times the size of France. Languequetrou will do for this country what others have done for Brazil and La Plata. He will utilize the soil which demands only to be cultivated. He will excavate the ground so as to extract its most precious metals. He will build cities, endow schools. He will exhibit to his subjects all the benefits of civilization. And you, senhora, shall learn the Tehuelchian language and give lectures to my people — to your people. Oh, senhora, Languequetrou will make you the most powerful queen in the world!”

  When he finished speaking the Indian dropped on both knees and kissed those of the queen.

  Greatly disconcerted by the impetuosity of a somewhat artful discourse whose naïveté was not lacking in a certain piquancy, but in which Irene, who was a woman of judgment, could discern a programme — political, social and economic — in keeping with her own ideas of progress — greatly disconcerted, the actress took the Patagonian’s hand and helped him to rise to his feet.

  “Please get up, my handsome ‘Sad Heart,’” she said. “You dream dreams worthy of the son of a great king, but alas! I can follow you only from afar in the admirable efforts that you are about to make. Possibly when I return to France I may help you. I will not fail, in any case, to see the Minister of Foreign Affairs, who is a great friend of mine, and tell him of the new era which is being inaugurated for South America beyond Rio Negro. As he has a very receptive mind he will understand me at once, and in this way I shall be preparing the foundation of an alliance between France and Patagonia before England can get wind of your intentions. My friend, beware of England!”

  “Then you are going to desert me!” exclaimed Languequetrou in a hoarse voice.

  “I am not going to desert you; it is fate that comes between us. I owe my life to my country as you owe yours to your country. Give me your arm and let us go back to the marquee where poor Don Manoel must be very impatiently waiting for us.”

  Sad Heart was silent. She looked at him as he took her to the marquee. His eyes were once more veiled and his lips drawn in. He wore a dark expression on his face.

  “Come,” she said,” don’t be unkind. Let us cherish these last few hours spent together as a pleasant memory, for I shall never forget them.” Sad Heart still remained silent. She imagined that he was greatly upset, and she pitied him.

  “Everything sets a barrier between us,” she said. “Did you not know that I am a married woman?”
r />   At last he said in a strained voice:

  “Is that man faithful to you?”

  It was an odd question, she thought.

  “I think so,” she returned, laughing brightly. “With us,” he said harshly, “a man is always faithful to his wife. And wives are always faithful to their husbands. It is a matter of life or death. People do not play false in our country.”

  “But I have heard that your chiefs have several wives,” said Irene in a playful tone, intended to bring her gloomy cavalier back to good humour.

  “Legitimate wives,” he returned, without relaxing. “Never does a chief worthy of the name betray his legitimate wives. When his heart goes out to a woman not his wife, he marries her. That gives him another wife, and everything is kept within custom....”

  “So you are offering me the position of the favourite?” went on Irene in the same chaffing tone.

  “No, not the favourite,” he returned in increasingly sombre tones. “When Languequetrou mounts the throne he will be Ouenetrou XIV, king of kings. You would be the queen.”

  “A sort of Madame de Maintenon,” said Irene to herself, wildly amused and foreseeing a new triumph when she recounted, first to her friends, and next to the journalists, how she was asked in marriage by the king of the Patagonians.

  “But I say, my dear prince, it occurs to me that you, as an exile, speak with considerable assurance of a power which will probably be contested. I hear that you have a great many enemies at your father’s court.”

  “When my father dies I shall not have any enemies, senhora. I shall have them all slaughtered.”

  She gave a start and stared at him. There was a cruel look on his face, and she was glad to leave him at the entrance to the marquee. She looked round for Don Manoel, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  CHAPTER IX

  “ADORABLE SORCERESS”

  “Dost love the damned, adorable sorceress?

  Dost know the smitten sore?

  Dost know Remorse that, grim and pitiless