Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “Good heavens!” cried Irene.

  “Fortunately I was equal to the occasion. But do me the favour of believing that it needed all my diplomacy. You think you know Ouenetrou XIV, but I know him now better than you do, madame.”

  “Yes, Sylvia.”

  “You think he is of primitive nature, by turns sincerely affectionate, cruel, capable of simple cunning, generally the victim of impulse, easily giving way to enthusiasm, and acting by caprice and without reason. But I can tell you, madame, that Ouenetrou is quite the opposite of this. He is very knowing. And that’s all about it.”

  “The deuce! You don’t mean to say you love him?”

  “That’s another matter. There’s no rule against loving a knowing man. And you can take it from me that for shrewdness no one can beat him. He told me a few things, and I should have laughed if, when all is said and done, we weren’t the victims of his cunning.”

  “I shall never forget what you’ve done for me!”

  “Nor shall I, madame.”

  “Are you sure that he is pacified?”

  “Yes. Of course, one can never tell what’s going to happen with so clever a man as he is. I am not surprised that he has made a fortune. He has any number of tricks up his sleeve.”

  “I can see that you had a very interesting conversation.”

  “Very interesting. You’ve no idea how he has gulled the Brazilian people. He is a savage who was bound to make his way in civilized society. He doesn’t care a rap for this civilization apart from what he can make out of it. He recognizes its benefits only in so far as they will fill his pockets. He is first and foremost a business man. And no dreamer, believe me. I should have liked you to hear him express himself in private. ‘I don’t care a rap about Patagonia,’ he said, ‘but if it is properly exploited it may become a matter of world-wide importance from the financial point of view.’ As to his people, he has undertaken to make them work like the slaves of olden times. His journey here was brought about by an idea of his of trying to find in these mountains the gold of the Incas.... What could I say?...

  “Two mining engineers are to join him next month and prospect certain auriferous districts. But if they return from their expedition empty-handed you will see that Ouenetrou won’t make old bones in a Tehuelchian tent.”

  “What you say is past belief,” said Irene. “But what about me? What’s he going to do with me?”

  “Make you his mistress, that’s all. Irene de Troie of the Comédie Française as his mistress will flatter his vanity. He is not devoid of a certain self-complacency. To attain his object he has patiently adopted every means before resorting to force.”

  “Force?”

  “That’s what he told me. To begin with, he pretended to be enthusiastic about your ability, which he is unable to appreciate at its true value. Next, since you were known for your patriotism, he assumed the guise of a patriotic Patagonian. Then having heard your speech on the benefits of civilization he appeared to be very enthusiastic about civilization. But do you know what he said? I don’t want to have any secrets from you. He said: ‘Her lecture was so naïve that it would have made a child weep. But in that, as it happens, lies its merit. It is the very thing I want for my savages, whom she will undoubtedly fascinate.’

  “‘I am delighted to hear it!’ I answered, somewhat piqued. ‘I wrote it.’”

  “You ought not to have told him so.”

  “You must forgive me, but we all have our pride. Then he asked: ‘Are you a scholar?’ I told him in reply that I had my teacher’s certificate. ‘Has madame got her teacher’s certificate?’ he asked. ‘She has something better than that. She has her beauty and her brains,’ I replied.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “Ouenetrou tried to be gallant.”

  “What did he say? I insist on knowing.”

  “He said: ‘And you, Sylvia, you possess every charm.’”

  Irene had heard enough. She was about to tell Sylvia that she would not keep her any longer and she might return to her tent, when Black Lake came in.

  “The king wishes the queen to prepare for the ceremony.”

  Irene fled as soon as Black Lake’s back was turned.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE QUEEN

  IT WAS A day of great festivity. The king and his court, surrounded by his people, marched to the wigwam from which Irene had stealthily fled, amazed by Sylvia’s revelations. No one paid any heed to her in her rags. She could watch undisturbed the incidents of the ceremony.

  The high priest stood outside Irene’s tent waiting for the king. In the absence of her father it was he who was to give the bride away. But before this part of the ceremony was reached he made a long speech to the king in which he dwelt on the qualifications of her who was to be seated with him on the Patagonian throne.

  The oration had certainly been dictated by Ouenetrou himself for the purpose of dazzling his subjects with the importance of an alliance which would raise Patagonia to a level with the most powerful tribes on earth. It was no ordinary princess whom Ouenetrou XIV had brought from a foreign land, but a most renowned enchantress — called in ancient times witch — whose words foretold the future and were heard in wonder by assembled multitudes. She had the gift of vision even to the depths of the earth, but she made use of her powers only for the good of mankind. Therefore they should, as was the custom, faithfully listen to an enchantress in communion with Ouenetrou, the spirit which illuminates the world with its fiery rays and brings the harvests to fruition. Having thus spoken Black Lake said to Ouenetrou XIV:

  “Have you, who ask for my daughter, brought the wedding gift?”

  Almost at once women drove before the high priest a fat young mare, decorated for the sacrifice and destined to provide the bill of fare for the feast, washed down with considerable libations of water served in molaho or cups made from the horns of oxen. Black Lake, who had no reason to keep the king waiting any longer, went to fetch the bride.

  He returned with Sylvia, magnificently attired in her mistress’s most beautiful dress — the dress which on the night of the lecture conquered Languequetrou. It was her tight-fitting, low-necked robe of black and white satin set off with a waistband of precious stones; and Sylvia wore also the toque of embroidered jet spangles turned up at the top like a crown.

  Irene uttered a muffled exclamation which no one noticed. She was able to realize to the full Ouenetrou’s quick intelligence and deep insight into men.

  Hardly had Sylvia appeared in her magnificent finery when a general shout of admiration filled the encampment, and the music “went off by itself”; that is to say, the “band” obeyed a spontaneous impulse. Their instruments consist of a sort of guitar made from the shoulder blade of a horse and a flageolet cut out of the bone of a dead warrior, and the sounds which these instruments give forth are extremely weird.

  It was a great victory for the Rue de la Paix!

  So striking a spectacle was a change for these rude beings in sheepskins whose women were clad with so little artifice or harmony. And the women themselves were delighted to do homage to the art of the sempstress by performing a few steps of a dance, accompanying their movements by beating, with deafening vigour, wooden bowls over which were stretched wild cat skin. Civilization had made a step forward in this remote kingdom. It made a second step by lending itself to the sacrifice without which there could have been no nuptial ceremony.

  Four caciques threw down the young mare, the bridegroom’s gift, and Black Lake placed a large, sharp-pointed, two-edged knife in Sylvia’s hand, indicating with his finger the spot at which she was to deliver the blow.

  Like a priestess whom nothing can move when it is a question of accomplishing a sacred rite, Sylvia plunged the knife to the hilt into the beast’s quivering flesh. The blow was so accurately struck that the mare, after a few plunges, fell dead without a drop of blood staining the bride’s robe.

  Up to that moment it would be difficult to descri
be what was passing in Irene’s mind. When she saw Sylvia emerge from the tent clad in her dress and toque, she hardly knew whether her indignation at the sight of Sylvia so airily wearing her clothes did not outweigh her gratitude to her for unhesitatingly taking a place not without honour, but demanding duties of which she could not think without a shudder.

  After the slaughter of the poor mare she congratulated herself that Sylvia, whose pale green eyes had not flickered, had chosen to take her place. This feeling, however, soon became modified, so complex is the mind of a coquette.

  Black Lake, after tearing out the mare’s heart hot from the viscera, leant over it and drew such favourable auguries for the future that men, women and children with one accord acclaimed Sylvia with waving of arms and shouts of triumph. Ouenetrou himself could not remove his eyes from her. The caciques, mounted on their war horses, formed a double circle, and galloping and shouting round her, struck their shields with their huge spears.

  However uninterested one may be in primitive humanity and its barbarous rites, the spectacle of men at arms doing honour to a queen is not a contemptible one, especially when the queen maintains the dignity of her rank, as was the case with Sylvia. Impassive and mistress of herself, she seemed entirely in her right place. But she was in Irene’s place. Irene was not, perhaps, far from thinking that she was rather too much in her place. But all this was nothing as yet!

  A great repast was served in the open air. The caciques’ feast was presided over by Ouenetrou and Sylvia, who were seated facing each other.

  The women prepared, carved, and served up the immolated mare. Custom demanded that no one should rise until the animal was entirely devoured, skin and bones, of course, excepted. These bones, well picked, are collected by the relatives of bride and bridegroom and buried under a kind of cairn erected in remembrance of the marriage which is thus consecrated. As in the present case there were no relatives, because on the one hand Mademoiselle Sylvia Vernot had left her father in the old world where he was continuing his cabinetmaking, and on the other Ouenetrou had had his own poisoned, it was Black Lake who directed the ceremony of interment.

  At the moment when it was thought that the function was over, the king helped Sylvia to mount the tumulus, and standing erect on this pedestal she began, at a sign from him, to make a speech.

  Irene’s amazement was great when she heard her serving up to the Tehuelches word for word her lecture on the benefits of civilization. From time to time the orator paused to enable Ouenetrou to translate her speech; a task which he performed with great freedom, but also with great ability, knowing what was wise to say or leave out, and Sylvia’s success exceeded all expectations.

  The beauty of it was that she not only wore the dress and toque of Mademoiselle Irene de Troie of the Comédie Française and gave forth a text in the composition of which she had had a hand, but she adopted the very gestures, accent and sovereign grace — in short, the brilliant and captivating style in its entirety of the Queen of the Stage.

  Sylvia had no brains, perhaps, but she had a genius for mimicry. She was acclaimed with frantic applause.

  Irene returned to her tent. She had never felt so deeply hurt.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  “THOU MUST DECEIVE”

  “THOU, HOWEVER, MUST deceive: so far do I know thee! Thou must ever be equivocal, trivocal, quadrivocal. Even what thou hast now confessed is not nearly true enough nor false enough for me.”

  — Thus spake Zarathustra.

  IRENE retired to her tent, that is to say to Sylvia’s tent. Here she remained henceforward on the bare ground in this poor habitation, destitute of any comfort, where no one came to trouble her on this day of festivity which marked the triumph of her maid.

  Alone and sullen, forgotten by them all, she took no part in the coronation ceremony. Like her, we, too, will ignore it, for the manners and customs of the Tehuelches are of interest to us only in so far as they concern Irene.

  Towards the evening food was brought to her. It was Black Lake who was entrusted with this duty.

  “Here is something to eat, sent you by the king at the queen’s request,” he said.

  “Tell your master that Irene de Troie does not eat her maid’s leavings.”

  She turned him out with his jug of milk and maize cakes. She was suffering from lack of food, but her pride exceeded the pangs of hunger. Worse torments were in store for her.

  Though she put her hands to her ears to shut out the sound of the nocturnal orgy, she could not help hearing its echoes when the caciques and the king’s thirty-two wives escorted the newly married king and queen to the tent which, as we know, was next to hers. The singing and dancing were not yet over, and the infernal music of shoulder-blade guitars and death’s-head flageolets deafened her. At last silence reigned in the encampment.

  Irene lay down on her reed mat. The bed was hard and she was cold. Black Lake came in again laden with puma skins.

  “The queen in her kindness wishes to share the softness of her bed with you, and with the king’s permission sends you these skins,” he said.

  Irene threw them at his head.

  “As it pleases the king to sleep in my maid’s things let him keep them, and don’t let me see your villainous face again.”

  Black Lake took her at her word and did not return. He was the one man who might have mitigated, to some extent, her hard lot. She had roused his hostility for good. But she felt no regret, for the consciousness that she had not fallen in her own estimation sustained her in her misery.

  During the following days she maintained a bold front. She was compelled to discharge the meanest duties, such as milking goats and making cheese. Meanwhile Sylvia was wearing her wardrobe piece by piece, and continuing to arouse general admiration. No compliment on the manner in which she carried herself in Irene’s finery was too fulsome for the king to utter. Feast followed feast, and Sylvia distributed the awards.... Irene’s hats suited her to perfection!

  Irene learnt how to sweep out the banqueting hall and wash up the wooden platters. She learnt also to load and unload horses, pitch tents and string pearls. If she displayed a feeling of revolt she was subjected to worse usage. She was under the control of the “Mute” who was in charge of the women slaves and had methods of making himself obeyed without resorting to long speeches. He had never been known to say more than two words: oueselma, fool, pofos, ass. Therefore he had to be kept in good humour. As a rule his staff was sufficient for his purpose.

  Irene must have had unsuspected reserves of strength, otherwise she would never have been able to withstand her life of drudgery. But she refused to die because it seemed to her that her death would afford Sylvia too much pleasure. She hated her more than she hated Ouenetrou. And she dreamed of a terrible revenge in which Sylvia would perish by her own hand.

  One day she found herself looking at Ouenetrou in a manner which brought the blushes to her cheek. She was glad that Ouenetrou had not seen her. For that matter he invariably ignored her. But it may be that others had observed the sudden interest which she had shown in her tyrant. If you live at Court, even in the kitchen you must be on your guard. There is no incident that will not be exaggerated by rivals to secure the good graces of the favourite.

  At any rate, from that day onward Irene’s life became worse than ever. She had to obey the Mute, but she was at the beck and call of anyone who chanced to meet her. She had to submit even to the children, whose joy was to inflict cruelties of every kind on her. They threw stones at her, hurled their bolas round her body at the risk of injuring her, or when they were mounted flung a lasso over her and amused themselves by dragging her after them at the gallop; and they subjected her to other indignities. They tore the hair from her head. And often if she wished to put an end to her martyrdom she had to smile with an air of happiness and gaiety.

  One day there was a great commotion in the encampment. She learnt that the caciques were returning each to his own tribe with his men, and Ouenetrou was prepar
ing an expedition into the mountains.

  That evening Sylvia, with an air of secrecy, trembling with excitement, crept into the tent.

  “If they get to know that I have come to see you we shall both pay the penalty with our lives,” she said.

  She fell at Irene’s feet.

  “Poor madame!”

  Irene seemed to have turned into a statue.

  “How they must have made you suffer! But I’ve been as miserable as you. I was not allowed to pity or speak or look at you. Do you know what Ouenetrou suggested? He wanted to make you wait on me. I would never have agreed to that. I would rather have died. To have you as my servant — you, who have been so good to me, whom I love so much. No, and again no. I should have died of your humiliation.... I must tell you one thing. Ouenetrou doesn’t love me. There is only one woman in the world he loves — and that’s you. He has subjected you to such treatment only for love of you. He hoped to drive you to despair, break your spirit, make you cry for mercy. You have stood every ordeal. You have been wonderful. Over and over again I said to Ouenetrou: ‘Aren’t you afraid of madame killing herself? I should have done so in her place long ago.’ And he made answer:

  ‘No, don’t be afraid, Sylvia, she won’t kill herself, because she is jealous of you. I wanted to make her jealous of you. And she is jealous. She is thinking only of one thing — revenge!”

  At this point the statue turned into Irene again and showed signs of life.

  “I... jealous of you?... Oh, my girl!”

  “Of course. That’s what I thought too. I can’t imagine your being jealous of me. That would be the world turned upside down. We have seen some strange sights since we set foot in Patagonia, but a thing like that.... No, no.... It’s unthinkable.”

  “Yes, Sylvia, it’s unthinkable,” agreed Irene icily. “Why should I be jealous of you, I ask? Because you have married a savage?”

  And Irene burst out laughing, and laughed as only an actress of the Comédie Française can laugh.