Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  Sylvia also began to laugh.

  “As you know, madame, I married Ouenetrou to please you. Therefore, if you are willing to risk it, we will play one of my tricks on him.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “Get away, that’s all. You will understand that I have shown such great patience only to prepare this escape. This is a favourable moment. Ouenetrou leaves to-night for his expedition in the mountains to which I have already alluded. He has, in fact, received a message that the mining engineers whom he was expecting have landed at Santa Cruz, and has sent Black Lake to meet them. He has left very few men here, and they are under the chief management of the Mute. I have bribed him. I have persuaded him to go and settle in the Argentine pampas. He will take you with him and leave you at Mendoza.”

  “What about you?”

  “I shall stay with Ouenetrou to permit you to get clear away without interference, and to lull our tyrant’s suspicions to sleep. Besides, I shan’t be sorry to see the face he’ll pull when he learns that you have taken the first opportunity of bolting. ‘Well,’ I shall say, ‘do you still maintain that madame is jealous of me?’ Ouentrou thinks too much of himself. It will be a good thing to prove once for all that we can do without him.”

  So saying, she left Irene and returned to Ouenetrou.

  Irene remained wrapped in thought. As a result of her reflections she felt that she ought to be inexpressibly glad to make her escape, but owed no gratitude to Sylvia for helping her.

  Events took their course as Sylvia had foretold. The caciques went their different ways. Then Ouenetrou, accompanied by Sylvia and a number of his men, made for the mountains. He set out without giving Irene a look. She had but a smile from Sylvia, a smile which wished her “Good luck.”

  “Oh, to leave, to leave at once,” she said to herself after having “caught” this smile. “Let me be some distance from here before another day is over or she will think that I allowed my escape to fall through from jealousy.”

  CHAPTER XXX

  ROSARIO, THE TERROR OF THE PAMPAS

  THAT VERY NIGHT the Mute and Irene stole away from the encampment. They set out mounted on two horses laden with provisions. Her escort had given out that he was obeying his master’s orders and would return within two days at most. But at daybreak, leaving the mountainous country, they rode forward in a northerly direction. The Mute had not uttered a word. Every now and again he turned round to discover if they were being pursued.

  They cautiously skirted the spurs of the Andes whence flowed the streams and rivers which watered a somewhat luxuriant country, and held themselves in readiness, at the first alarm, to plunge once more into the mountains under cover of the woods whose shade in this region fell over the edge of the pampas.

  Strange to say, this flight, which nothing seemed to impede and should have filled Irene’s heart with unspeakable gladness, left her but half satisfied. Had her escape been due to her own artifice she would assuredly have been transported with joy, but the knowledge, which became an obsession, that it had been forced on her by Sylvia’s diabolical cunning, caused a sense of dejection. Nevertheless she was in no position to brood over psychological considerations. She was escaping from Ouenetrou — that was the main thing.

  When we consider what she was leaving behind her and could hope to recover after her days of martyrdom, wholly due to the persistence of a lover whom she had held at arms’ length, we may be surprised that this “chief thing” failed to wipe out the memory of all else, even the ignominious manoeuvres of a maid who had taken a place which she had scorned to take.

  Was it not that Irene’s worst torment had come after Ouenetrou had abandoned the struggle? She did not love him, but she had seen him at her feet, and now he was at the feet of a rival — and such a rival!

  Oh, the shame of it! Was she indeed jealous of Sylvia? Had she fallen so low as that? Had she withstood so many humiliations only to realize that this mean sentiment had crept into her heart? Hatred may enter a proud heart, yes, but this!...

  O Irene de Troie of the Comédie Française, dare you admit to yourself when you again take your place and station in society, and time, without, alas! effacing the memory of the past, lies between you and an adventure in which you nearly lost all save honour — and this in itself should be placed to your credit, most noble and heroic of coquettes — dare you admit to yourself that it was no flash of rage or despair that shot from your eyes that night on the pampas when suddenly a horseman came into view and fell like a thunderbolt on you in your plight?

  Already the Mute had fled, but you, you waited.... And you recognized Ouenetrou! Why did you wait?... Perhaps to die, for you would never have yielded to him, but dare you admit to yourself that you were not sorry he had come? He had left everything for you, even Sylvia! In that wilderness doomed to so much torment, as you knew only too well, you, Celimene, triumphed still....

  There are times when coquetry, rising to such heights, and remaining virtuous, deserves to be recompensed. Happily for you, the god of love who was waiting his opportunity was on guard. And at the moment when this centaur was about to carry you off on his saddle, a lasso whipped the air, wound round his body, reducing him to helplessness and cutting the animal in two — that is to say, the man toppled from his mount and was violently dragged along the ground by a horseman who lifted you into his saddle.

  Your rescuer would have liked to dismount to make an end of your inquisitor, but you appealed for mercy, and as the newcomer could refuse you nothing he abandoned his prey and the lasso, pressing you to his heart. Amid the excitement you omitted to thank the man who had come to wrest you from Ouenetrou’s clutches and now held you tightly clasped. He looked to the manner born a gaucho. But in addition he wore a huge pair of spectacles....

  “Who are you?” Irene asked.

  “I am Rosario, the Terror of the Pampas.”

  She recognized the voice of the Permanent Secretary of the Fine Arts.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  “I SHALL NEVER FORGET IT”

  URGING HIS HORSE into the river Rosario and Irene crossed the Rio Chabut.

  “We are not far from camp,” he said. “We have nothing to fear, otherwise I should have shot Ouenetrou like the dog he is in spite of your entreaties, senhora. But now let him come and recapture you! He’ll know the sort of man Rosario is.”

  And as he continued to clasp Irene closely to him she asked to be allowed to breathe. He relaxed his hold a little, but not much.

  “Oh, Mr. Permanent Secretary!”

  “There’s no Permanent Secretary now,” he cried. “Dead, gone! No more libraries, no more books, no more birds. Now I fight savages.

  I am Rosario, the Terror of the Pampas. For two months I have led this life so as to find you, my Irene. It is the only life worth living. The open air, a sense of space, horses, powder and shot, the lasso, the bolas and the pampas!... Two months ago I felt the blood of the de Carangolas, who in olden days were great adventurers, come to life in me again. I a bookman! What a shame! Do you know, senhora, that a de Carangola took part in Vasco de Gama’s expedition to the remotest parts of the earth? And do you know what he was called? He was called Adamastor. That’s all. Like the spirit of the Storm. The giant Adamastor whom Camoens in his ‘Lusiads’ has immortalized, the giant Adamastor who rode the tempest was, the poet tells us, my ancestor. Don’t be astonished at anything-. I have discovered my destiny. Let Ouenetrou come back and he will find his match.”

  He was beaming with enthusiasm.

  “Take off your glasses,” said Irene.

  But I shan’t be able to see anything.”

  “Never mind. Take them off.”

  He took them off. He certainly looked a new man with his wide hat, swarthy complexion and dark eyes; he was no peon, nor one of those” would-be” gauchos who become the servants of the rancher, but a real gaucho with his chiripa or baggy trousers, and boots fashioned from the untanned hide of a colt — a kind of leather stockings to whi
ch were fixed the rowels of his silver spurs as large as monstrances; moreover, he sported a waist-belt adorned with a profusion of silver ornaments, which kept his big knife in its sheath, and finally he wore over his shoulders a sort of short cloak or poncho.

  He put on his spectacles. And as they proceeded at a jog-trot to the camp which they could discern a few hundred yards ahead on the outskirts of a wood, he recounted his adventures — the pursuit of Ma Casa by the Brazilian despatch boat, and the breakdown of her engines, which did not, however, prevent her from eventually overtaking Ouenetrou’s yacht.

  They boarded her, but Irene was not on the ship. The officer in charge replied to their questions with a smile which suggested “discretion in love affairs” and handed them Irene’s letter to read, whereupon the captain of the despatch boat was satisfied that she had left with Ouenetrou of her own free will, and her letter absolved the Brazilian government from any responsibility.

  He asked for instructions from Rio, and was ordered to return at once, bringing the letter with him. Don Manoel strove, without effect, to convince him that they were the victims of a diabolical piece of cunning. He could do no more than induce the officer to put him on shore.

  Here he got together a small body of half-breeds who knew the pampas, gauchos who swore to recapture the senhora from Ouenetrou, and he proceeded with them along the coast. When they first set out they were thirty strong, but when it was a question of leaving the coast they were reduced to twenty. They plunged inland, declaring that they had discovered Ouenetrou’s trail.

  The truth was that they were going too far northwards, and their objective was the railway between Rio Negro and Buenos Ayres, where they intended to “have a good time” with Don Manoel’s gold. By dint of further liberality Don Manoel kept ten of his men, and came back towards the Andes, where he imagined that he would encounter Ouenetrou’s Tehuelches, but after a fortnight’s search seven of his men refused to go farther, and returned to Mendoza.

  In the end he was left with three men, three hardy, stalwart men who would stop at nothing. De Carangola had become as good a gaucho as any of them. He assumed their character, their manners, habits, dress, arms, dexterity, cunning, and even their ferocity in dealing with Indians who refused to give information as to the region where Ouenetrou might be found, so that whenever Indians came across Rosario — such was the name which de Carangola had assumed on the pampas — and his three men, they slunk away with their wives and children. They nicknamed Rosario “the Terror of the Pampas.”

  Having thus told Irene all about himself he condescended to turn his attention to her for whom he had done such wonders, and finally observed her poverty-stricken appearance and physical deterioration.

  “Devil take it,” he cried, “you do look a sight, senhora. But that’s a matter between Ouenetrou and Rosario. I will tear his heart out and give it to the swine for food!”

  “If you have any friendship for me, please...” gasped Irene.

  “If I have any friendship for you!”

  “Please leave Ouenetrou alone. Besides, he must be in a very grievous state.... And add the finishing touch to your goodness to me by taking me at the earliest moment to a train for Buenos Ayres.... Rosario, my friend... you see I call you Rosario....”

  “Ah, that name on your lips!”

  “Rosario, don’t trouble about Ouenetrou.”

  “Just as you please. Ouenetrou has ceased to exist for us. It’s as though he were already dead. Let’s forget him. Oh, I felt that you were thinking only of me! Tell me that you never for a moment ceased thinking of me.”

  “I was all along expecting to see you come, dear friend. You were my only hope.”

  “Your only hope! You were thinking of me by day and I was thinking of you day and night. Even when I was asleep I thought of you. And I awoke with my veins on fire... on fire, and I said to myself: When will there be another night like that wonderful night!”

  “What wonderful night, dear friend?”

  “What! Have you forgotten?” said Rosario loudly. He had become the Terror of the Pampas again.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she said with lowered eyes. “Hush, someone may overhear us.... No, no, I have not forgotten that night... but do be careful. See how weak I am.”

  “The fact is, Irene, I shall never forget it. The worst may happen to me. I may find myself face to face, for instance, with Dona Maria and her confessor, but I shall never forget it. On that account I have deserted my six daughters. On that account Rosario has killed Don Manoel de Carangola. And even when Rosario is dead I shall remember it. That is what I wanted to tell you.... I hope...”

  “Do please be more gentle.”

  “I’m sorry. Besides, here we are, and you may rely on my discretion.”

  “Is this your camp?”

  “Yes. But what do I see, or rather what do I not see?”

  “I see a tent.”

  “Exactly. But when I left the camp there were three tents, and now there is only one.”

  “What then?”

  “Well, my three men have deserted me like the others. We are alone on the pampas, my Irene.”

  CHAPTER XXXII

  OUENETROU TO THE RESCUE

  ROSARIO HAD GUESSED the truth. His last three men had deserted him after leaving a letter explaining that they were weary of a futile pursuit and had determined to go back to Mendoza, where they had business to do.

  “They’ve got over twelve hours’ start of us, and fresh horses. Mine is done up. We shall never overtake them,” said Rosario.

  “Do we go to Mendoza?”

  No, we must leave the Andes and cut across the pampas to Neuquen. Here, at the junction of the Rio Negro and Neuquen rivers, we shall reach the branch railway through Bahia Blanca to Buenos Ayres. But to get there we must ride through flat country, which may be dangerous. Had you allowed me to polish off Ouenetrou the question would not have arisen.”

  Just then a slight cloud of dust could be seen near the Rio Chubut which they had left. It was Ouenetrou riding towards them with the swiftness of an arrow. Irene uttered a cry of terror. Rosario with perfect composure dismounted, and taking Irene in his arms placed her on the ground.

  “What are you doing? Let’s be off.”

  “Be off! Rosario never runs away,” he returned. “Were I alone I should wait for Ouenetrou, but you are with me, and your safety is my chief consideration. Come with me, senhora.”

  They dived into the wood, which was almost impenetrable, and with the greatest difficulty cleared a path, dragging themselves along on hands and knees.

  “Ouenetrou will easily find our trail,” gasped Irene, weary of a struggle for ever renewed, and ready to abandon hope.

  “I rely on his finding it at once,” said Rosario.

  That is, in effect, what did happen. But Ouenetrou could not follow the trail on horseback, and had to dismount and tether his horse to a tree near which Rosario’s worn-out mount was resting and munching scrub.

  Rosario, with the unhappy Irene at his heels, made a circuit in the wood which brought them back to the camp. He darted forward to his own horse, and with one stroke of his big knife hamstrung the poor brute.

  Irene was unable to grasp what was happening. Rosario did not waste time in explanations. Untethering the splendid beast which the king of the Patagonians had so opportunely left there, he placed her in the saddle and in one bound, which would have won applause from all the gauchos of the pampas, leapt up behind her. Digging his spurs into the flanks of his mount he galloped away.

  Just then Ouenetrou came into sight at the outlet from the trail which Rosario had traced in the undergrowth. With a sweeping wave of his hat Rosario saluted him from the distance.

  “Now let him run after us,” he said.

  Ouenetrou fired a few shots from his rifle, but in his rage his hand shook, and Rosario got off lightly with a bullet through his hat.

  “The clumsy brute, not to mention that he might have wounded you,” exclaim
ed Rosario.

  “This king is certainly no gentleman.”

  Nevertheless Rosario was conscious that Ouenetrou would not acknowledge himself beaten. Therefore he did not waste precious time. The next few days were days in which Irene again suffered great hardships. As to Rosario, he seemed made of iron. Irene could not help admiring him. His ingenuity and dexterity were equal to any occasion. With his lasso or bolas he caught young deer or ostriches, and cooked and seasoned them with herbs, thus providing meals which Irene, in her hunger, had learnt to be satisfied with among the Tehuelches. Moreover, they were favoured by the weather, and thus they reached Neuquen a few hours before the departure of the train.

  Nothing in this small wayside station hidden in the pampas could interest Irene, whose thoughts had already flown to Europe. She took her seat in a carriage while Rosario remained behind to make a few necessary purchases.

  Had he mistaken the time of the train’s departure? At all events the train proceeded on its journey without him.

  True, Irene might have alighted from it when she perceived that her companion had not returned. But it was so long since she had found herself in a train that she had no heart to abandon so soon this benefit of civilization.

  A few hundred yards from Neuquen, while she was still standing in the corridor of her carriage, she descried two horsemen riding at breakneck speed. The one ahead was Rosario, the other Ouenetrou.... They gradually gained on the train.... Now they were level with it.... Rosario unloosed his lasso and hurled it over the funnel of the engine, which he captured. The engine driver, accustomed to the pranks of the pampas, did not get excited over such a trifle, and the fireman put more coal on the fire. Meanwhile Rosario shouted madly, and did not loose his hold of the engine. Thereupon with a supreme effort Ouenetrou brought his steed level with Rosario, and with one stroke cut the lasso with his knife.