Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “Who is this Adelaide?” I asked. “She certainly put up a good argument for me at dinner.”

  “It’s just an affectation. She pretends to be very arty, and has a salon where old professors and young poets go. But beware of her: I suspect her of every vice there is.”

  “What is there to be afraid of?”

  “If she once got hold of you, she’d never let you go.”

  “Thanks for warning me.”

  Eventually, I was allowed to say good night.

  “Don’t make any noise,” cautioned Georgette, “and don’t wake up Trompette.”

  She ushered me into the little cabin, where Trompette was sleeping peacefully in the lower bunk, her face towards the wall. I climbed softly into the upper one. Georgette blew me a parting kiss and disappeared.

  I heard her lock the door and remove the key from the lock. A little later Sam’s voice rumbled through the partition. He was in a good humor; he must have won. Then silence....

  Presently it seemed to me that I heard the sound of weeping. I was not in doubt for long; it came from the bunk beneath me. Trompette was weeping, with deep sighs like a little child. I tried discreetly to pay no attention, but pity soon overcame my reserve, and I called her name. She did not answer and the sighs ceased. But, as I remained silent, they began again.

  Finally I climbed down from my berth and leaned over hers:

  “My dear child, what is the trouble?” I asked.

  Two youthful arms encircled my neck and a moist cheek was pressed against mine.

  “Why did you send me away?” she pleaded.

  “But I didn’t, Trompette. I just—”

  “You have been talking all this time to Madame, and telling her everything. You forgot all about me. And I have been so lonely. I wanted to talk to you. I have never known anybody like you before in my life.”

  I was filled with consternation.

  “But, my darling—” I began, when I felt her lips pressed desperately against mine. And I realized suddenly that Trompette was no longer a child; nor merely a young girl; she was at that exquisite age which is neither girl nor woman but the bridge between the two. In Georgette’s stateroom I had paid little attention to her, but I saw now what a lovely, unspoiled, romantic creature she was. I returned her kiss and disengaged myself gently from her arms.

  Eventually, I persuaded her that she had not been forgotten, and she promised to forgive me if I would tell her of my adventures.

  “Tomorrow, Trompette, tomorrow,” I said. And climbed back up to my berth.

  Never did a stowaway travel under such delightful conditions! Nor was a prison ever made so charming!

  I can only hope that Mr. Flow may often find his chains as light as those that held me on board The Goddess (named after the trade-mark of the Didier-Saxe spark-plug). Georgette and Trompette! When one left me, the other was at my side. My imagination worked day and night, inventing stories of which they never grew tired. They demanded tales that would make them shiver with fear; the more terrible the better. What adorable children they were! They trembled in my arms and begged, “Tell me some more...

  Trompette confided to me with all the seriousness in the world that she had never loved anybody but me, and that when I left her, she was going to enter a convent. She was jealous of the attention Georgette paid me.

  “She doesn’t love you the way I do,” explained Trompette. “She is rich and has had plenty of men in love with her. I have seen her flirt with them lots of times. But with me, you are the only man I could ever love.”

  But I shall not stop to tell you in detail how they spoiled me. Ah, Georgette! Ah, Trompette! I was only an unscrupulous impostor, but the charming days of our idyl at sea could not have been more perfect, had I been the true hero you thought me. I shall never forget your gay, tender smiles, Georgette; nor the serious gaze of your trusting eyes, my little Trompette! Neither the past nor the future existed while I lived safely in your care!

  The weather stayed fine all through our trip to the South. We passed Saint Sebastian without stopping, and I suspected Georgette of having something to do with that. But I could not complain at the lengthening of my enchanted voyage. The sea continued to rock us gently, and through the porthole I caught glimpses of the coast of Spain. About this time I learned that, on a whim of Sam’s, we were turning north again and were going to run along the coast of France, stopping at Biarritz. Trompette gave me this information, making me promise not to mention it to Madame, who had told her in confidence.

  My charming Georgette was obviously afraid that I might escape her, while we were close to the shore. And her very precautions put the idea into my head. I had no desire to land at Le Havre, after my unceremonious leave-taking. A ridiculous incident — but one with serious consequences for my safety — soon brought my resolve to a climax.

  My only source of complaint so far had been a cramp in my legs. And the time came when I could no longer stand my close quarters. It was the evening after Trompette had told me of the change in plans. I had reached the point where I was willing to run any risk for a walk on deck. Georgette had not yet come down; the captain was giving her a lesson in astronomy. The others were hard at their game of poker. The night was hot and moonless, and I sent Trompette up to see if the coast was clear.

  “Find out if it’s safe for me to go up,” I urged.

  After five minutes of objections, she consented to do what I had asked. I had left the door between the stateroom and the saloon ajar, and a few moments later I saw a shadow at the head of the stairs. Thinking it was Trompette, I advanced to meet her. But the lights were suddenly switched on, and I found myself facing a woman I had never seen but whose voice I had often heard. It was Adelaide.

  She gave a cry of fright, and I retreated instinctively into Georgette’s room. Immediately afterwards, I heard Georgette’s voice, and the two women followed me into the cabin.

  “For God’s sake, be quiet,” begged Georgette.

  And to save the situation, she could think of nothing better than to tell Adelaide who I was. Adelaide was a tall, dry woman, as knotty as the branch of an apple tree, with a face like a knife. Her short hair, brushed in a bang over her brow, reached nearly to her restless, glassy eyes. She was at least forty-five, and a slight mustache darkened her lip.

  “I told you never to leave Trompette’s room,” said Georgette to me in a severe, impersonal tone. “Get back there at once and don’t let me see you again.”

  The next day, while I was sitting quietly in my retreat, the door to the bathroom opened, and I saw Adelaide enter. She came ostensibly to interview me, but after a few questions — for the sake of form — threw herself into my arms. Or rather, she took me into hers. I freed myself energetically.

  She clung to me, whispering phrases from popular novels in my ear. But I was pitiless. No doubt it was tactless on my part, but it was certainly sincere. Adelaide’s caresses were no temptation, and Potiphar’s wife was not repulsed more brutally. I fled to Georgette’s room, but she followed me. I returned to Trompette’s.... At length Adelaide abandoned her thoughts of conquest, and I heard her climbing the stairs with muttered threats.

  At once I realized what I had done, and was ashamed of my clumsiness. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” The lady with the mustache would not waste time in getting her revenge.

  At that moment the yacht was turning about, and we slowed down. From what Trompette had said, I gathered that we were off Saint-Jean-de-Luz. In another few minutes, I would no doubt be dragged from my hiding-place and haled before the captain or the inhospitable Sam. There was no time to hesitate. I knew where Trompette kept her savings, and took possession of them with a secret vow to repay her — with a little gift besides — later on. Then I slipped up to the deck, glanced towards the lights of the coast, and dropped into the water.

  Half an hour later my feet touched sand and I walked up on the shore. I had taken my time and was not too tired. In fact, the exercise and th
e shock of the cold water had taken the stiffness out of me, and I strolled along the beach enjoying my new freedom. Fifty yards down the shore, coming on a row of bathhouses, I decided to dry off in one of them and wait a few hours before risking an appearance in the town.

  When I emerged from the bath-house, refreshed by a long sleep, my plan was ready. It was after midnight. I ventured as far as the harbor, where nearly all the cafés were closed. In front of one, however, stood two long, heavy limousines. I approached the door of the café cautiously and peered in. Two chauffeurs, in shirtsleeves, were playing billiards in the rear room. My choice settled on the front car, which was filled with packages, for the chauffeur had left his uniform, cap and coat on the seat. I waited until an animated discussion arose as to whether one ball had touched another, and slipped into the driver’s seat. The car started as silently as a bird. Everything perfect! My thanks to the millionaire who had thoughtfully provided it.... In a moment I was sailing down the road, stepping on the gas.

  Without stopping, I put on the chauffeur’s cap and slipped my arms into the sleeves of his coat. Then on in high....

  A few minutes later the pounding of an open cut-out sounded behind me. It was my two men in the other car. I should have had sense enough to monkey a bit with the other engine before leaving. Another time I would know better. I strained the car to its utmost, but my pursuers hung on doggedly. The distance between us neither lessened nor grew. The only chance of getting rid of them was to turn into Biarritz, with which I was unfamiliar; but with a few turns in the narrow streets, I might throw them off. I did so, taking the turns on two wheels.

  How I got outside of the town again I have no idea. But I emerged suddenly on a clear highway, and caught a glimpse of the one word, “Paris,” on a sign. I was headed north. What wouldn’t I have given to have been back in my little room in the rue des Bernardins! On board the yacht I had let my beard grow out again, in spite of protests from Georgette and Trompette....

  All night the car devoured the roads. My headlights were good and I used them, for there was nobody behind me now. Or, at least, I thought there was nobody. At dawn I stopped for gas in a little town whose name I never learned. I noticed then that my limousine was a handsome, dark red — an indiscreet color. The chauffeurs had probably reported the theft, and if Madame Potiphar had been busy, Mr. Flow’s new exploit was no doubt already known in all the large towns.

  I decided to abandon the road to Paris, and head northwest towards Brittany, avoiding the main highways. I had consulted the chauffeur’s map, and knew that I was not far from Angoulême — another city to steer clear of. Suddenly, glancing in the mirror, I noticed a cloud of dust behind me and a car manned by three men, one of whom was in shirt-sleeves and standing on the running-board, waving one arm frantically. My chauffeurs....

  The trick I had used at Biarritz had been too successful not to try it again in Angoulême. But that cursed red of the car! It could not escape notice much longer. In the center of the village I stopped in front of a garage. Only desperate remedies could help now! In the garage I called for the owner, and asked:

  “Have you got a man you can trust?”

  “What do you want him for?”

  “I’ll tell you: I promised a friend of mine to bring his car to him at Rennes today. But I have just got a telegram about some business that keeps me here in Angoulême. Now, have you got a man who could take this car on to Rennes? I’ll pay him well, and he’ll get a good tip at the other end. But he’ll have to travel fast, because they are waiting for those packages.”

  “I’ve got a man all right, and I would trust him like myself, but I need him here.”

  “I’ll give you five hundred francs....”

  “You can have him!”

  He nodded to a mechanic who had been listening. “You heard what it is he wants?”

  “I get you. I’m to step on her.”

  I handed the mechanic two hundred francs, and scribbled an imaginary address on a slip of paper. “Now make the dust fly!”

  It was with deep satisfaction that I saw the incriminating car disappear around the corner of the square. The others could not be far behind. They were probably circling about Angoulême now, wondering what had become of me. Turning to the garage man, I remarked casually, “I have to go back to the telegraph office.”

  Five minutes later I had the pleasure of seeing my chauffeurs, who had stopped in the midst of a crowd, and were asking if anyone had seen a large red car go by. I pushed forward:

  “A red car? It stopped up on the square. A car full of packages....”

  “That’s the one, by God!”

  “The man had on a white cap and long coat....”

  “My things, the thief! Which way was he going?”

  “He asked the way to Rennes.”

  “Thanks. Turn around, François. We’ll get the — How long ago was it?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  The last I saw of them they were crossing the square at full speed, ignoring the gesticulations of an angry policeman.

  I walked quietly to the station and took the first local out of town. During the next thirty-six hours what locals I took! And what a maze of connections I picked my way through! But eventually I landed in a solitary little village beyond Caen.... Of all poor Trompette’s savings, there was only one fifty-franc note left. Hardly enough to splurge on, especially as I looked like a vagabond since I had discarded the chauffeur’s uniform. Nor could I picture myself at Deauville, though I was not far from it and might send word to Helena.

  I did not risk the coast. But, a couple of miles from Luc-sur-Mer, I rented a room under the roof at the inn of the Deliverance. For two days I did not put my nose outside, but lay at full length on my bed, a loaf of bread, a jug of cider, and a piece of cheese on the table beside me.

  But still I did not write to Helena. I ate and slept. At intervals I read in a novel I had bought in one of the innumerable stations where I had had to wait for my connections. Knowing myself once more so near to Helena, however, I felt my former need to see her and hear her voice come over me. The most glorious hours of my life had been spent at her side. The bad times I had fallen on (temporarily, I hoped) were powerless to make me forget. She had taught me a rascal’s trade, but at least I had practiced it in her company. In remembering my exploits, neither the memory of Jacob’s house nor Abraham’s apartment troubled me. Only the thought of little Trompette, who had loved me so sincerely, touched me. And, even in her case, it was not because I had repaid her devotion by stealing her savings that my heart was moved, but because I knew she would be lonely without me. As for her pocket-book, my conscience was at ease, for I would make good her loss at the first convenient moment. I cannot recommend this solace of good intentions too heartily to all those timid persons who hesitate before a necessary act, merely because their best friend will suffer from it.

  No, if I did not write to Helena, it was because I was ashamed to appear in the condition I was in.

  This reminded me that the small income of a hundred and fifty francs that I received from the estate of an uncle — whom I had never seen — had not been paid that month. No doubt it had been returned, since I had left for the summer without giving my landlord any address. I wrote to the bank that handled the estate.

  Three days later I received a registered letter containing a money order (I had asked for a money order, as there were no facilities for cashing a check in this out of the way corner). I had given my own name at the inn, and my signature on the postman’s receipt was the first act which restored me to my true citizenship.

  My beard was growing rapidly. It was now a silky collar around my cheeks and chin, which gave me a quaint 1830 appearance. Mr. Hooker had disappeared forever — at least, so I hoped.

  In the village I bought a pair of blue trousers and a pea-jacket, which made me presentable, and walked to Luc. I no longer had any fear of meeting one of my colleagues. From Luc I continued on to Lion-by-the-Sea.
This name reminded me suddenly of the two sisters who shared the room next to mine in the rue des Bernardins. Their “villa” could not be far from here; between Lion-by-the-sea and Saint-Aubin, they had said. The next day I would stroll past there and say hello to them.

  For, this evening I wished to spend writing to Helena. She must be more and more proud of me. The papers were filled with my deeds. Mr. Flow had never been in such good form. Adelaide had reported me to the Basque police. Trompette had apparently confessed to having sheltered me in her cabin, all the way from Le Havre, without the knowledge of her mistress. Thus Adelaide and Georgette had both saved their faces, and Trompette had doubtless been well paid. More savings for her to lay away!

  It was with some relief that I read that The Goddess had left for a long cruise in the Mediterranean. The ladies on board had seen my real face. And so long as my beard had not entirely grown out again, I had no desire to meet them.... The incident that had proved most sensational was the theft of the red car. It appeared that my chauffeurs had not succeeded in overtaking it until Rennes, where they found the mechanic from Angoulême completely puzzled by the adventure. The papers made the most of this episode, and I saw cartoons of myself kindly giving information to the chauffeur whose car I had stolen.

  Curiously enough, I found myself embarrassed about writing to Helena. I began a half dozen letters and tore them up, finding them either too stupid, or too romantic, or too literary, or too abrupt. Finally, I sent her my address and said simply, “I am waiting for you.”

  The next day, I hunted out the “villa” whose ownership gave such ecstasy to Nathalie and Clotilde. I recognized it from the picture they had shown me: a little shanty made of planks and boxes. More clamshells than flowers in their garden, which was merely a patch of sand. But, to make up for the lack of flowers, there were bathing suits and linen drying on the picket fence.

  This imposing estate was called “Our Delight.” A curl of smoke was rising from the chimney which projected above the tar-paper roof. It was time for lunch. The two sisters greeted me with exclamations of pleasure and their welcome rejoiced my heart. I had no hesitation in accepting their hospitality.