Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  Feeds at my heart’s red core?

  Dost love the damned, adorable sorceress?”

  “The Irreparable,” Baudelaire

  IT was Languequetrou who drove her back to her hotel in his luxurious car. Under the influence of the illuminations and the champagne he had become quite agreeable again, displaying all the manners of a gentleman. And Irene was delighted to resume before the eyes of the company her part as a great coquette. When he left her outside the hotel he fervently kissed her hand.

  “I shall never forget this evening,” she said, adding: “You must write to me, my dear prince. You know that you have my very best wishes.” And they left each other as though they were never to meet again.

  In the lift, Irene saw her maid, who had come to meet her. Sylvia had a look of consternation on her face, but Irene was not deceived by it. A certain inward joy caused her eyes to sparkle too brightly and broke through the excitement which she pretended was dejection.

  “What’s the matter, Sylvia?”

  “The matter is that your boudoir has been turned into a florist’s. The flowers which Don Manoel sent to your dressing-room, and you got rid of, have been returned here by him.”

  “Well, Sylvia, you have only to throw them out of the window.”

  “That’s exactly what I was going to do when Don Manoel himself came. He is waiting for you upstairs with the flowers.”

  “Oh, you don’t say so! This is carrying it too far.... And you let this imbecile plant himself in my room! I’ll show him what I think of him.... We leave early to-morrow. Are the trunks packed?”

  “Everything is ready, madame.”

  “I’ve done with Rio de Janeiro. I’ve nothing to gain by showing this maniac any further consideration. Don’t leave me. Of course the whole thing amuses you....”

  “Me, madame?... How can you say so? If you only knew...”

  “Yes, I know all about your devotion. Well, I am easily satisfied. I want you to stay with me while I settle with Don Manoel, and it won’t take long, I assure you.”

  Irene entered her room like a lioness robbed of her cubs.

  “She’s going to swallow him alive!” thought Sylvia. She had not exaggerated when she described the room as a “florist’s.” Flowers were all about — on the tables, chairs and floor; the sofa was covered with them like an altar on Corpus Christi day. In the middle of this garden stood Don Manoel, pale, with folded arms.

  “You!” cried Irene. “You again! But can’t you see that I am sick of you? You have behaved up to the last like a booby. After horribly compromising me by conduct unworthy of — I will not say a gentleman, for you are a gentleman only in name — a decent man, you continue to pursue me to my own room. You are robbing me of my last few hours of sleep. You are not afraid of scandal, you said the other day. Well, you shall have scandal to your heart’s content — a greater scandal than you wanted! All Rio de Janeiro shall know the sort of man you are. A buffoon — an absurd, grotesque buffoon! Sylvia, look at this man. Go and fetch the servants and tell them to throw him out. Rouse the entire hotel if necessary. The more people there are, the more they’ll laugh at him. Go, Sylvia.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  Suddenly Irene paused and Sylvia stood motionless. Don Manoel had unfolded his arms, and in each hand he held a huge pistol, masterpieces of the armourer’s art of the seventeenth century.

  “Don’t imagine that you are in any danger,” he said to the two quaking women. “These pistols are for myself alone. They are the family arms. The one which I hold in my right hand was used by my ancestor, Don Fernandez de Carangola, to blow his brains out in a fit of melancholy. I have a good many other family arms which my daughter, Isabella, religiously preserves with the help of Vermhelo, the chief gunsmith in the Rua do Ouvidor. Isabella is not like her father. She is not afraid of firearms, and often amuses herself with this man at target practice, for these antiquated pistols still send a bullet to its billet though they make a terrible noise. After what happened this evening in the Bamboo Avenue life has become unbearable.”

  “Well, monsieur,” returned Irene, “you have an opportunity of using these weapons if the spirit moves you.”

  “I know you have loaded my rival with favours, madame.”

  “The man whom you call your rival is a gentleman and would be quite willing to meet you, but for heaven’s sake relieve me of your presence.”

  “I shall not fight that man, madame, because he might miss me! Clumsy as I may be I should not miss myself at point blank range.”

  “Are you going to shoot yourself here?”

  “Yes, on that bed of flowers. Madame, you have given me a glimpse of paradise” — he pointed to the other room—” and you go away after inflicting the most terrible torment on me.”

  “I have given you no glimpse of anything, and I know nothing of any torment.”

  “Indeed, madame, you know nothing!... Well, I believe you.” And a smile of infinite bitterness passed over his face. “With a look, you inspire a beautiful hope in a patient heart and know nothing about it. You transfer that look to another and fill me with an unspeakable sorrow, and still know nothing about it. And when I say to you: ‘Through you I suffer the torments of the damned’ you pass on with the remark: ‘This poor man has lost his senses.’”

  Two heavy tears rolled down Don Manoel’s cheeks, and when he recited in a broken voice Alceste’s lines to Celimene, he did not look so grotesque as might be imagined, even with the pistols in his hands:

  “I lost them all, when I the poison draught Accepted at your hands, and, heedless, quaffed. Obedient, fated and foredoomed, I drain Its bitter lees; an end to all but pain!”

  He stretched himself on the bed of flowers.

  “I beg you to forgive me, madame. I might have taken my life on your bed as others doubtless have done in similar circumstances, but I prefer to die among these flowers which you would not accept.”

  He placed a pistol against his temple. Irene sprang forward and seized his hand. For a moment she might have thought that he was taking a farcical revenge on her, indulging in some hateful game intended to punish her for her coquetry during the party which, indeed, had caused considerable pain to this blundering but well-meaning heart, but his tears and the unaffected tone in which he spoke, the despair depicted on his pale face, the decisive gesture with which he placed the pistol to his temple — all these things proclaimed aloud that he was about to die for her unless she devised some means of saving him. She realized that a great sacrifice had become necessary. His wounds could not be healed with soft words.

  “I warn you,” he said, “that if you run away or call for assistance I shall kill myself, and if you wrench away the pistol that you hold in your hand, I shall use the other.”

  “But my friend,” she entreated, “do wait a bit.”

  “What for?”

  She pressed her hand to her throbbing heart. She had thought of a way!

  “Will you give me five minutes?”

  “What for?” he repeated.

  “Within five minutes I will call you,” she murmured in a faltering voice; and she withdrew into the bedroom with Sylvia.

  “Oh,” cried Don Manoel, opening his eyes wide.

  He rose from the funereal couch, but he did not loose his hold upon the pistols. He was too grateful to them! The colour returned to his cheeks. He waited feverishly, no longer afraid. He knew the rooms. He knew that the bedroom had no other outlet but the one before which he was waiting. At the end of five minutes the door opened, and he heard Sylvia’s voice:

  “Come in, monsieur, madame is ready for you.”

  He went in. Sylvia came out as he entered and reclosed the door. Then she passed through the boudoir to the dressing-room where there was a wardrobe. She took her mistress’s travelling cloak and hat which were hanging there. She wrapped herself in the cloak, took off the frilled cap on her head, and put on the hat. She looked at herself in the glass, and observed with a feeling of sati
sfaction that Sylvia had never so greatly resembled Mademoiselle Irene de Troie. Needless to say, it was Irene herself. She snatched up a travelling bag, descended to the entrance lobby, gave the night page-boy a handsome tip to take her to the harbour, and, once outside, inhaled with delight the fresh breeze sweeping in from the sea.

  CHAPTER X

  THE YACHT

  NO SOONER WAS Irene in the bedroom with her maid than she began:

  “You have often said, Sylvia, ‘You don’t know, madame, what I am capable of doing for you.’ Well, my girl, I want you to do something for me. If you consent I shall be grateful to you for the rest of my life. You will no longer be a servant in my eyes, but a friend, the dearest of friends.”

  “Oh, madame, tell me what it is. I will do anything for you,” returned Sylvia.

  Irene explained briefly what she wanted her to do. It did not take five minutes to persuade Sylvia. She at once placed her frilled cap on her mistress’s head, tied her lace apron round her waist, slipped off her own clothes and crept into Irene’s bed.

  “I am ready, madame. You have only to switch off the light and open the door. I myself will call Don Manoel, and tell him you are ready for him.”

  “Then turn your face to the wall and pretend to be asleep. Unless he is a monster he will respect your sleep.”

  “Be easy in your mind, madame. You know now what I am capable of doing for you! Before daylight Don Manoel will take himself off. Where shall I meet you?”

  “On the boat with the luggage.”

  As we have seen, Irene’s ruse was entirely successful. She felt some doubt as to the manner in which Don Manoel would respect Sylvia’s sleep, but in the circumstances her conscience did not unduly trouble her.

  On leaving the hotel with the page-boy, Irene was so engrossed in congratulating herself on her idea, and the happy result that had ensued from it, that she failed to notice a luxurious motor-car standing in the shadow of the hotel at the corner of the street. The page-boy, for his part, was so pleased with his “tip” that he could think of nothing but the pleasure of spending it; thus neither of them noticed the dark forms which stepped out of the car and followed in their wake without making the least sound.

  Irene, escorted by the page-boy, soon reached the more or less deserted landing stage. She looked round for a boat to row her to the Bahia in the roadstead which was to take her to Montevideo with Hauptmann, the impresario, and the company. As it happened, a small motor-boat was moored alongside, and a man was preparing to set the engine going. She was about to speak to this man when a sailor appeared and asked if he could be of any service. She told him that she wanted to board the Bahia. The sailor pointed to the motor-boat, which Irene declared would admirably answer the purpose. Just then the first pale gleams of dawn showed in the sky. The sailor, a man of colour, spoke to the electrician, also a man of colour, and they exchanged a few words which Irene did not understand. A moment later she was seated with her bag in the stern, the pageboy scampered back to his hotel, and the motorboat was putting off, when half a dozen copper coloured sailors surged into her. Irene imagined that these men belonged to the Bahia and were returning to their ship. They seemed, moreover, in cheerful mood, good-humouredly drunk after a night spent in the taverns.

  The motor-boat left the harbour and made for the roadstead. It was glorious in the early morning. Irene felt happy. Her trials and troubles were over. Suddenly she perceived, on looking up, that the boat, instead of shaping her course for the Bahia, was speeding straight for a smart little vessel anchored at the other end of the roadstead. She at once questioned the electrician, who did not seem to understand what she said. She turned to the sailors, who started to sing a queer catchy song accompanied by guffaws, grotesque contortions, slaps on the legs, and blows on the chest heavy enough to fell an ox. She made use of all she knew of Spanish and Portuguese. She protested. She cried out. The men took no notice of her. They turned a deaf ear to her. She addressed the man at the helm, the man who had accosted her on the quay. He seemed to have retained his senses. She told him that he was making a mistake, for she wanted to go on board the Bahia. The man made a sign that he quite understood, and the boat continued its way towards the smart little steamer.

  “The idiots!” she cried.

  To allay her irritation she reflected that the Bahia would not sail for a couple of hours, and there would be time to set this foolish blunder right when she boarded the vessel and came in touch with one of her officers.

  She was, in fact, received with every courtesy by a young man of colour, whose sleeves bore two gold stripes. She explained the circumstances. The young officer expressed his regret for the mistake, and promised to have her taken to the Bahia at once. He begged her, in the meantime, to share his breakfast: a cup of tea and some buttered toast. Feeling much easier, she accepted his offer. The officer then showed her into an elegant dining-room and left her. When he returned he wore a look of bewilderment.

  “It’s all very strange,” he said. “I’ve just seen Marco, the man you spoke to on the quay. I’ve sent the motor-boat back for the governor. The governor told him he was coming on board with a lady, but if by chance she got there before him, she was not to be kept waiting but to be taken on board, and Marco was to return for him.”

  “But he couldn’t have meant me,” exclaimed Irene. “I wanted to get to the Bahia, not to the...”

  “Mina casa hé a seros ordens,” interpolated the officer, smiling.

  “Nice name,” she said, also smiling. “A little long perhaps, but nice all the same.”

  They had been speaking Portuguese. Suddenly the officer said in French:

  “In your beautiful language it means: ‘My house is at your service.’”

  “Well, monsieur, as your house is at my service, I beg you to have me taken at once on board the Bahia, I have already lost too much time.”

  “Wait a bit, senhora. I’ll call Marco.” Marco appeared, and the officer questioned him. He repeated the story which he had already told.

  “But, as I have explained, I want to get on board the Bahia.”

  “That is quite true, senhora. The governor said: ‘The lady whom you will take on board is to sail in the Bahia.’ Therefore he did mean you. There’s no mistake. I have carried out my orders.”

  “But it can’t be... I tell you it’s impossible,” she cried. “Will you, yes or no, have me taken on board the Bahia?”

  The officer seemed more and more perplexed.

  “This alters everything.... The man seems to have acted on instructions.”

  “But, I tell you, there’s some mistake,” she cried. “You don’t know who I am. I am Irene de Troie of the Comédie Française” — the officer bowed. “Unless you do what I ask, you will have our ambassador to deal with, and our government. Your governor will have to pay Monsieur Hauptmann, my impresario, a considerable sum of money if I am not in Montevideo on the day advertised for the performance.”

  “A sailor on board ship knows no other master than his captain. In this case the captain is the owner. I will at once send the motor-boat on shore to take the owner’s instructions.”

  “But we are losing precious time.”

  “Oh, senhora, this unfortunate mistake will soon be set right and you will be on board the Bahia half an hour at least before she sails.”

  He left her to give the orders. Irene went up to him on the bridge. Already the motor-boat was ploughing the sea.

  “Be quick, and come back at once,” cried Irene to Marco, who signalled that she could rely on him.

  “What’s the name of your owner?” said Irene to the young officer.

  “He will be only too delighted to tell you that himself,” he returned, saluting; and she did not see him again though she asked for him.

  Irene feverishly strode the deck, casting a hostile look over this vessel which nevertheless met her eyes, so to speak, with all the charm of her shining gear, all the lure and glitter of her mahogany and brass mountin
gs. She was a smart little vessel with two trim masts and cool awnings, between which stood, with a swaggering air, her funnel, seeming to say: “Come with us, senhora.

  You’ll see what a jolly trip we’ll have together”; and the smoke which burst forth in little puffs accentuated the alluring invitation: “It’s for you I’m puffing.”

  And yet Irene was in no way won over. Another scene engrossed her completely. It was the roadstead which in the splendour of the early morning revealed a magnificent panorama.

  To a mind which was wholly devoted to beauty, conscious above all of the sublime thrill of art, the marvellous arc of deep blue sky sinking into the green depths of the hills where some of the finest examples of architecture rose tier upon tier, afforded an unexampled feast for the eye. Irene at last stood motionless in the ship’s stern, and remained for some time as though hypnotized. Alas, truth compels us to state that, at that moment, she was in no mood for rapture or enchantment, for a single spot in the picture occupied her vision: that part of the sea where the motor-boat had passed out of sight and ought by now to be on its return journey.

  The delay, which might have passed all too quickly to a lover of beautiful scenery, caused her, as the minutes sped by, to give way once more to an emotion which had nothing in it of æsthetic fervour. She resumed her feverish stride up and down the deck which the crew seemed to have left wholly to her. She moaned; her breath came fast; her teeth tore her handkerchief into strips.... More ruined lace! And still the accursed motor-boat failed to return.

  Suddenly, a thought flashed through her mind, or rather startled her, for, trembling, she had to lean against the ship’s side. The king of the Patagonians had a steam yacht, and the king was abducting her!

  No, and again no! It could not be. She was beside herself.... He was no savage. He knew the benefits of civilization. He knew that he could not kidnap Mademoiselle Irene de Troie of the Comédie Française as, for instance, he might kidnap Mademoiselle Amanda.

  And then Sad Heart was a noble heart. He had acted towards her in the most exemplary fashion. He had expounded certain fantastic plans, but she had only to say a few words to make him realize their impossibility, in proof of which he had the wit to make no further allusion to them at the end of the party where he had so successfully replaced Don Manoel. One man at any rate — Don Manoel — had behaved in a manner which the prince would certainly never have dared to follow. Moreover, had not Languequetrou and herself left each other after the most touching farewells like persons in good society? Therefore she dismissed from her mind the terrible suspicion, but none the less resumed her fevered march up and down the deck.