Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

“What letter?”

  “The letter he gave you to take to the Bahia.”

  “He gave me no such letter.”

  “But this is awful,” cried Irene. “Why, what have things come to? He can do with me as he pleases, can this man, and with my letter in his hands may pretend that it was with my consent. The whole thing is abominable. What’s going to happen to me? Where is he taking me?”

  “To the sertao,” returned Antonio with a mournful look.

  He sighed once more and left her. She crept back to her cabin, and again shut herself in, locking the door. Her teeth were chattering, but it was not with rage.... Irene was overcome with fear.

  CHAPTER XII

  “GO TO, GO TO”

  “Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.”

  — Macbeth.

  SHE did not close her eyes that night. In the morning, linen and a white duck skirt and jacket were brought to her. She left the linen alone though it was new and of the finest quality, but she decided to put on the duck suit, which fitted her fairly well. She could not for ever keep on the low-necked silk evening dress — worn when she held forth in the Municipal Theatre at the evening fête on the “benefits of civilization” — over which, on leaving the hotel, she had just time to throw her cloak.

  In spite of her art in the use of cosmetics, it was not difficult to perceive that Irene de Troie had spent a very troubled night. Unfortunately for her and the others, and in particular for the youthful Antonio, the dark rings which formed round her eyes as a result of her misfortunes rendered her all the more beautiful. A bad night to a young and lovely woman means that she will look all the more interesting in the morning.

  It was a glorious day. Irene mounted the bridge, ready to take charge of the adventure since she was obliged to pursue it to the end. Languequetrou at once came up to her. He looked grave and somewhat stern.

  “I know you will never forgive me. But I know also how to suffer. When must you be at Montevideo?”

  “As soon as possible,” returned Irene.

  “But what is the date of the first performance?”

  She put the date a day forward.

  “Very well,” he said. “You shall be there, and we shall have time to spend twenty-four hours in my fazenda.”

  “I don’t want to go to your fazenda.”

  “It’s quite near here, in the sertao.”

  “As far as I am concerned, it may be in the moon.... I shall not go to the moon even with you, particularly with you. I’m going to Montevideo.”

  She left him and stole into the smoking-room, where she hoped to find Antonio. But he was not there. On the table lay one of the latest editions of an illustrated geography of the world. She turned over the pages, and came to Brazil. She looked at the maps and photographs, and read the text, which was short but to the point:

  “Brazil contains extensive stretches of forest which border the towns. The coastal zone, which is the inhabited part, scarcely extends beyond the superficial area of the towns. Notwithstanding persistent and carefully considered efforts made by the government which no obstacle can check, and which is doing its utmost to increase the railway mileage, it may be said that the development of the soil, from which incalculable riches may be extracted, has scarcely begun....

  “Almost everywhere agriculture is carried on by old routine methods, and it is hampered by indolence, apathy, the irregularity of native labour since the abolition of slavery, and lack of transit. Only the plains and valleys near the coast are properly cultivated. The interior has scarcely been encroached upon. Here the people live in their own way, cut off from their fellows, as it were, into water-tight compartments....

  “In the great inland regions behind the coastal zone lie the primeval forests, the territory of the Indians: divers peoples with every variety of stature, physiognomy, intelligence, speech, manners, and customs. Certain tribes still live in an entirely primitive fashion resembling our ancestors of the stone age, knowing neither how to cultivate the soil, nor to tame and train animals, nor the art of weaving, nor even to swim or construct a boat. Entirely nude, their lips and ears deformed by wooden ornaments, they find shelter in huts formed of leaves and supported by branches of trees, live on wild fruit, hunt or fish with the lasso and bow and arrow, while the hoarse sounds which emerge from their throats can scarcely be dignified by the name of language....

  “These tribes are sparse. Others, even before the country was conquered, possessed a less rudimentary civilization. These tribes knew how to build huts, to weave hammocks and baskets, and manufacture pottery adorned with crude designs. They entered into relations with the missionaries, and did not refuse the benefits of civilization. Others again, after seeming to show an inclination for it, soon grew wearied on account of the manual labour that was forced on them. The natives even to-day revel in their right to be idle. Even those who agree to enter temporarily the service of the planters return as soon as may be to the shadow of the great woods where nature supplies them, almost without effort on their part, with the little they need to live in idleness. Cannibal tribes are few. The sertao, or wilderness, is an enormous tract of country beyond the coastal zone, far removed from the civilized centres. This region is the domain of the Indians...

  Irene knew now what was meant by the sertao. She knew very little in fact, but that little was enough to make her spend a very bad day and destroy her appetite. Indeed she scarcely touched the food which was brought to her cabin after she refused to join Languequetrou at table. Nevertheless the smart little yacht steadfastly sped over the water, occasionally hugging the Brazilian coast. She left the Bahia far behind, and was still heading for Montevideo. What in reality did Irene fear? She made a great effort to master once more her agitation and to consider her position calmly.

  He would not land her by force. Nothing hitherto in his conduct could lead her to envisage the possibility of any such outrage. And then he seemed fully to realize what he was doing. If he did a thing like that, he might expect endless difficulties with a government by no means anxious for Brazil to be looked upon as a country of savages, for there would be a pretty disturbance throughout the whole world on the day when it became known that Mademoiselle Irene de Troie (of the Comédie Française) had been forced to tour the forest against her will.

  She turned the position over in her mind....

  After all, it was only a question of touring the forest. Languequetrou, with the obstinacy of the savage, new to the benefits of civilization, was in reality merely guilty of recklessness. He wanted to do the honours of his fazenda to an actress who would have preferred to proceed direct to Montevideo. Would the whole world be indignant with him for that?

  There could be no question of anything else. She was evoking a tragedy, whereas it was a farce. And, moreover, it was only in melodrama, now out of date, that young and beautiful women were abducted in order to make an attempt on their virtue under pain of death.

  Irene in melodrama! In melodrama and in newspapers which report various crimes committed in Paris and London and other capitals in the neighbourhood of which no sertao is to be found!...

  How many women were cut into pieces, and the remains, after “the worst outrages,” flung into a stove or buried in some pit — in ten pits — one for each piece! Could Irene be sure that Languequetrou was incapable of committing a murder and of digging ten graves! If these things were done in Europe, why not in Patagonia?...

  Alas, Irene asked herself the question. For the second night she did not sleep a wink. She threw her cloak over her shoulders and mounted the deck for a breath of fresh air. She fell in a seat aft. She saw only the man at the wheel. Languequetrou himself must have been asleep. All was peace on board, and in the sky, and on the sea.

  Languequetrou, perhaps, was sleeping the sleep of the just, and here she was conjuring up all sorts of fantastic visions. Suddenly a dark form emerged from a deck-house. She perceived that it was Antonio. He took infinite care to avoid the man at the whe
el, and crept up behind her. At length he stood close beside her.

  “Poor, poor senhora!” he murmured in her ear, while his breath struck unpleasantly on her neck.

  She gave a start, not because this man was too close to her, but because he was pitying her.

  “Tell me everything,” she said, taking his hand and so far, to be sure, pressing it with propriety, but with the same pleasing warmth which Don Manoel de Carangola had so greatly appreciated in the enchanting shade of the Paseo Publico!— “Tell me everything, and I shall look upon you as a friend.”

  “Speak lower,” he whispered. “If he knew I was here, talking to you in secret, his rage would know no bounds. One never knows what that man, deep down, is capable of doing.”

  “Why are you in his service?”

  “I can’t help myself.... I never go on shore. The police are after me. I killed a woman who was unfaithful to me.... And then he pays well. I am saving money. In a couple of years I shall decamp to Europe. There, it seems, the police let you do as you like!”

  “You killed a woman! You tell me that, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.... But the people of this country, you know, are too terrible.”

  “Any man in love in any country may become terrible when a woman tricks him. And yet I am not a bad sort. I have a very good temper. But don’t let’s talk about it. Good-bye, senhora. I must go, for if ever he saw me!... I think he’s jealous. Do you love him, eh?”

  “Oh no.... But you mustn’t leave me like this. He is asleep now.”

  “Yes, he is asleep or I shouldn’t be here. But there are others who are not asleep!”

  “Why did you say ‘Poor senhora’?” she asked, again pressing his hand. “What risk am I running?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But still, what can happen to me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then why did you say ‘Poor senhora’?”

  “Because I don’t know what’s going to happen to you.” And he repeated with a sigh: “Poor senhora!”

  These two words set her beside herself. She again pressed his hand, this time with genuine excitement.

  “Come, you know more than you care to say. Do tell me.”

  “Well, I will tell you one thing — one thing. It is perhaps a trifle — I can’t say — but it may be terrible. How should I know?”

  She listened to him breathlessly. He drew nearer still; his lips almost touched her ear.

  “You are not the first woman to come here. Other Frenchwomen have been here before you. He adores Frenchwomen. That is why he still keeps the shop in the Rua do Ouvidor. He invites them to his fazenda. They set out gaily enough, but I have never seen them return.... And now, senhora, leave him — get away from him as soon as you can. You know what you ought not to know.”

  He got up, ready to slip behind the deck-house. She stopped him, clinging to him.

  “But I can’t get away. How do you suppose I am to get away?”

  “You won’t be always on board ship. When you land, slip away at the first opportunity before you reach the fazenda — for they never return from it.”

  “Where is the fazenda?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Still, some people must have been there.”

  “I don’t know’ anyone who has been there — not a soul.”

  “Don’t go... Antonio!... Antonio, my friend!”

  “Not so loud — in heaven’s name not so loud, senhora.”

  “How do you expect me to escape alone in that wilderness?’

  “I can’t say. Run away at the first opportunity, through any field or plantation. You will soon come across a fazenda, and I hope for your sake it won’t be his.”

  “Antonio.... My dear Antonio.... Laddie, listen to me. You told me you wanted to leave America, and go to Europe. Well, I will take you to Europe myself.... And you won’t be worried over that old story — that youthful folly. I will see to that myself. Let us fly together, Antonio.”

  Antonio gazed at her. Irene’s hand pressed his more warmly than ever, and he returned the pressure feverishly, painfully. He leant over her.

  “You wish it?” he asked.

  Irene’s lips moved, but before she could say yes, he crushed her lips with his. It was a fierce, savage kiss which mightily displeased her, but she had to submit to it all the same. When she was able to speak it was she, this time, who said:

  “Go now, lest someone takes us by surprise.”

  “That’s settled,” he said hoarsely. “Everything is agreed. When you land I will leave Ma Casa unknown to anyone. I will follow you, and I swear I will rescue you.”

  He left her after asking for another kiss, which, all things considered, she dared not refuse.

  CHAPTER XIII

  AZRAEL

  “Who comes from the bridal chamber?

  It is Azrael, the angel of death!”

  — “Thalaba,” Southey.

  WORN out by her long spell of waking Irene gave way to a sound sleep as soon as she returned to her cabin. When she awoke in the morning she heard a peculiar noise on deck: hurried steps, words of command, silence, and then a sort of singsong from a dozen voices in the language which she did not understand.

  She dressed quickly, threw on her cloak, and went on the quarter-deck to see a dead body shrouded in a sack slide down a plank, which two sailors held at the slope, and plunge into the sea which closed over it.

  The crew drawn up round the two sailors repeated their litany, and then at a word of command from Languequetrou, who held his cap in his hand, silently dispersed.

  Irene looked round for Antonio, greatly affected by the lugubrious ceremony.

  “You won’t find Antonio,” said Languequetrou in a gloomy voice, “the poor man is dead. An unfortunate accident happened last night.... What are you looking at me like that for? It’s awful, of course, but I could do nothing....”

  “Don’t come near me, you horrify me.”

  She shrank back, clutching the rail behind her lest she should fall. She was deathly pale, and with dilated eyes gazed in terror at the Patagonian.

  “What are you suspecting?” he said in a low and mournful voice. “The poor boy fell into the hold through the hatchway, which was open and ought not to have been open. He broke his back.... I deplore his loss just as much as you do. He was very useful, and up to the time of your coming aboard was devoted to me. I had an opportunity of doing him a great service at a critical moment, and he did his utmost to please me. And then suddenly he changed. I saw he had fallen in love with you. Who wouldn’t? Then he lost his head. His work suffered in consequence. Last night he neglected it to talk to you about something or other for over an hour. Don’t deny it! I know it. I know everything. I am told everything. He came away from that talk like a drunken man. When you went back to your cabin and were asleep, he hovered round it like a ghost. Afterwards he crept up to the forecastle and himself opened the hatch without making a sound, and it was no easy thing to do. What was he looking for? Food? Money? Some casket that he had hidden there? If he wanted anything he had only to come to me. I have never refused him anything. He was groping with his foot for the hold ladder and must have missed his footing — made a false step.... And he went to his death below. There, I have told you the whole truth.”

  She did not say a word. She collected her strength to leave him, not to look at him, not to listen to him. This man who stood before her was the embodiment of diabolical cunning, hypocrisy, apparent ingenuousness, acute intelligence and — murder!

  He checked her.

  “Forgive me — do you believe me?”

  “Let me go!” she gasped. “Let me go!”

  He released her, but before she could escape she heard him say in a stern voice:

  “It is not I who am responsible for his death.”

  These words remained in her mind for some time. It was indeed through her that Antonio had met his death, but who was the murderer? He was the mur
derer!... And she was in the power of this man.... Was she so much to blame for having tried to escape from his clutches even at the price of a kiss?

  She threw herself on her berth, and burying her head in the pillow wept — wept. For she felt that had Antonio known in venturing on so great an undertaking wherein his life was at stake, and betraying a man who had rendered him so great a service, he would obtain from her no more than a kiss — had Antonio foreseen his reward, he would have indubitably considered the price for so hazardous a venture too high.... What then? What would any other woman have done in her place? She would have had less scruple. She would have promised more. Ought she to have given all? Would Antonio in that case have escaped the vengeance of Languequetrou? The unhappy man would have lost his life just the same....

  This last consideration helped her to dry her tears.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE SERTAO

  TWO HOURS LATER the Ma Casa, hugging the coast still closer, steamed into a deep wide creek, then wound her course among a maze of islands, shaded by palm trees, and headed for a river rendered deliciously cool by a vast arbour of mangrove trees whose interweaving creepers and roots assumed fantastic shapes. The river was filled with drift flowers and wonderful orchids. Languequetrou, stretched in a rocking-chair, seemed to revel in the enchanting moment....

  Irene was once more a prey to conflicting emotions. Languequetrou’s explanation of Antonio’s accident was, on the whole, extremely plausible. He had not disguised his knowledge of Antonio’s love for her. But he had said nothing about it to Antonio. He had the pride of a prince who could not be expected to interest himself in the love affairs of persons beneath him in station, and whom these love affairs could not affect. As far as she was concerned, he had apparently done her the honour of placing her so high that she would not deign to give ear to the lover’s sighs of an Antonio! His attitude was not devoid of a certain glamour....

  In short, Irene was strangely perplexed. If this man’s only crime was to love her, and to wish to take her to his fazenda so as to enjoy her company a little while longer, he was not to be hated, but pitied. He loved her, and she wanted to leave him!