‘But the judge insisted: “How was it that you and your wife weren’t astonished when only two people came down the next morning? Why were you silent about that? We would never have known a thing about all this if Monsieur and Madame Chaulieu had not come themselves to tell us that they fled in the night!”
‘“Why should I be astonished?” Scheffer answered. “You know the little show we gave and still continue to give for amateurs. It had frightened the little lady, and she can tell you herself that several times during the evening she said: ‘The whole place frightens me!’ No, I was not surprised, and I must admit that we had a good laugh over it when the two Italians told us the next morning, before leaving, that Monsieur and Madame had been frightened to death and had escaped by the attic window... Besides, we found the rope there... As for the Italians, after the abrupt departure of Monsieur and Madame, they had carried their bedding into the other room and had passed an excellent night there.”
‘“Still, if the incident was as funny as that, you had no reason to keep quiet about it!”
‘“But who told you I did? On the contrary, I’ve told it scores of times to travellers stopping for a drink... But to find them now—”
‘“You might have said something to the stage-driver.”
‘“Oh, when he stops at the inn he has other things to do: he is busy with his horses. Besides, he may have heard my tale, at that.”
‘“No, he has never heard it... He never suspected a thing.”
“‘That is quite possible. What should he suspect?... That story is a trivial matter. You surprise me with all this fuss.”
‘“The Italians didn’t tell you that they frightened Monsieur and Madame in order to obtain possession of the room?”
‘“Good heavens, no.”
‘The answer was a serious one, because after all, if the whole thing had only been a joke it was strange that the Italians had not boasted of it before their departure.
“‘I am the only victim in the whole affair,” Scheffer went on, “because I have not been paid for the bill yet. And that is probably why the Italians did not confess that they were responsible for the flight of the other two: they did not want to be asked to pay for the bill.”
‘As you see, he had an answer ready for everything.
‘Nevertheless, the judge was perplexed and the inquest continued for some time. They made new searches, but they found nothing and the matter was finally dropped. It was not until three years later, a year after Maria-Luce’s death, that the affair came to light again, and this time the papers were full of wild tales.
‘Antonio Ferretti and Olivia Orsino had never been heard of again, and you must admit that it was strange. I know that Antonio Ferretti was married and that he may have gone to some far corner of the earth to enjoy his happiness under an assumed name, but, after all, he was just becoming famous, and to give up such a splendid career forever!... I grew more and more convinced that they had been murdered, and even today after a lapse of over twenty years I am positive of the fact.
‘But I was saying that three years later something new occurred. In excavating not far from the inn, some new bones were found, and you can well picture the stir that it caused. The Weisbachs were on everyone’s tongue again. And the Scheffers had become famous overnight, as famous as the Weisbachs had been! The experts, however, did not agree on the age of the bones.
‘In the meantime, first one, then two, and then three families who had had disappearances among their relations, claimed that they might quite possibly have been victims of the Scheffers, because they had taken a trip through French Switzerland. They went even so far as to establish the fact that a young man from Linz, who had abducted a girl of good family, had slept one night at the “Inn of Blood”. At that, the Scheffers and their servants were arrested and I was called as one of the witnesses.
‘Their guilt seemed established and there was no doubt that they would be sentenced, when we suddenly learned that the young man in question had married the young girl of good family in America, and that they were farmers in Minnesota! The Scheffers were acquitted... And now my story is done.’
‘And nothing more was ever heard of the Italians?’ Dorat demanded.
‘Never.’
‘And the Scheffers are still going strong?’ Captain Michel asked, and this time he was not joking.
‘Yes, they are still there making money. I heard of them quite recently from a friend who passed through Soleure. The “Inn of Blood” has become historical. People come from far and near to see it; only no one ever asks to spend the night in the “travellers’ room”!’
THE WOMAN WITH THE VELVET COLLAR
Translated by Mildred Gleason Prochet and Morris Bentinck, 1929
‘You say that all the tales of Corsican vendettas are just the same old story over again,’ Gobert, a retired sea captain, remarked to his friend Captain Michel. ‘Well, you’re wrong. I know one story that is so terrible that it makes all the others seem mere child’s play. It even sent a chill up my hardened spine.’
‘Yes?’ Michel was sceptical. His was the scepticism of a man who, believing himself to have known the most thrilling adventures, does not take stock in other men’s tales. ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘another case of a couple of bullets in the back, I suppose. But go ahead, let’s hear it. We haven’t anything better to do.’
With this last shot, he ordered another round of drinks, and the party of old sea-dogs, who gathered every evening in the Café of the Sea at Toulon to spin their yarns, settled themselves to listen.
‘First of all,’ Gobert began, ‘my story hasn’t anything to do with guns, and secondly, you’ve never heard of a Corsican vendetta like mine unless, of course, you happened to have been at Bonifacio about thirty years ago, as I was. In that case you would have had your fill of the story because the whole town was agog with it.’
He looked around inquiringly, but none of the men present had ever touched at Bonifacio during their many voyages.
‘Well, I’m not surprised,’ Gobert went on. ‘It’s not a port of importance, but it is one of the most picturesque towns in Corsica. You’ve all seen it, probably, on your way to the Orient. A lovely spot with its old fortress, the turreted battlements, and time-stained walls. The fortress juts out over the crags like an eagle’s nest...’
‘Lay off the descriptions and give us the story,’ the others exclaimed impatiently.
‘All right, here it is. I was in command of a small destroyer forming part of the squadron escorting the Secretary of the Navy on a tour of inspection in Corsica. At that time they were considering the fortification of several ports. In fact, they even thought for a while of turning Porto Vecchio, which is as large as Brest, into a regular naval base.
‘The Secretary of the Navy went first to Calvi and Bastia, from where we returned to Ajaccio to wait for him while he crossed the island by train, passing by Vizzavona, where he was met with great ceremony by a delegation of bandits who had left the wilds of the interior that very morning to present their respects to him.
‘The famous Bella Coscia himself commanded the squad that fired the salute. The Secretary of the Navy was much impressed with his imposing bearing, his rifle whose carved stock had a nick in it for every man he had killed, and his famous knife — the dagger given to him by Edmond About with the request never to leave it in the wound!’
‘There you are, the same old stories,’ Captain Michel interrupted peevishly. ‘Just a lot of old wives’ tales.’
‘You’re right, old chap; these are just stories, but if you hold your horses, you’ll hear something more important.
‘We left Ajaccio and arrived in Bonifacio at night. The larger ships continued to Porto Vecchio, but I was among those detailed to escort the Secretary ashore. It was a gala night, of course. A big dinner was followed by a grand reception at the Town Hall.
‘Bonifacio, situated as it was opposite Magdalena, wanted fortifications, and its citizens had turned out in great
style to make a good impression. They produced the best of everything they had - flowers, finery, and beautiful women, and you know how beautiful Corsican women can be! At dinner there were some striking beauties and I remarked about it enthusiastically to my neighbour, Pietro Santo, a charming fellow of a frank, good-natured appearance, who was then Town Clerk.
“‘Wait until you have seen the woman with the velvet collar,” he said seriously in answer to my remark.
“‘Is she more beautiful than these?” I asked with a smile.
‘“Yes,” he replied without smiling, “yes, she is more beautiful, but it is not the same kind of beauty...”
‘In the meantime our conversation drifted to the customs of the country. My head was still ringing with all the brigand stories I had just been hearing from my comrades on their return from escorting the Secretary to Vizzavona, and their account of the spectacular reception by Bella Coscia had seemed to me like a scene from a musical comedy. I thought it was rather polite on my part to doubt the dangerous character of these outlaws. After all, Corsica was as civilised as certain parts of France itself at that time.
‘“The custom of the vendetta,” Santo explained to me after I had spoken, “continues to be a part of the code of honour here in the same way that duelling is with you. Your revenge accomplished, you automatically find yourself an outlaw. But what can be done about it? It’s too bad, of course, but we have to put up with existing facts. I myself am an easygoing man. I was brought up in an antique dealer’s shop and I’m sorry to see how savage some of my compatriots still can be when their family honour, as they call it, is in danger.”
‘“You surprise me,” I exclaimed, pointing out to him the jolly, good-natured faces around the banqueting table.
‘He shook his head. “Don’t trust them,” he warned, and his face grew dark. “A laugh changes very quickly to a diabolical grin on their lips. All these dark eyes are sparkling with frankness and merriment tonight. Tomorrow they may flash black with thoughts of hate and revenge. And all those slender, delicate hands clasping each other in good fellowship never cease toying with hidden arms.”
‘“I thought those customs had died out in the cities and only existed in the little villages of the interior,” I said.
‘“The first husband of the lady with the velvet collar was Mayor of Bonifacio, sir.”
‘I did not understand the allusion and was on the verge of asking for an explanation of this somewhat enigmatical remark when I was stopped by a call for silence. The speeches were about to begin. At their conclusion we withdrew to the drawing-room, and it was there that I first saw the woman with the velvet collar. Nor did I need Pietro Santo to point her out to me. There was no mistaking that strange funereal beauty and the velvet ribbon, which circled the base of her neck making a wide, black strip against the whiteness of her skin. This velvet collar was worn very low at the rise of the shoulders and emphasized her long and slender neck. She carried her head very proudly, always holding it in a straight, upright position. Her face was classic in its beauty but so pale that one would have believed it chiselled in marble had it not been for two flashing eyes of strange brilliancy.
‘As she passed through the room they all bowed to her with lowered eyes and I caught a general atmosphere of fear and instinctive recoil which roused my curiosity to full pitch. Her beautiful body was draped in black velvet and as she came forward, slipping in and out of the crowd, with her proud head and tragically pale face, I had the impression of seeing the dignified ghost of some dead and martyred queen. When she had gone, I turned to my new friend and voiced my feelings about this uncanny woman.
“‘There is nothing strange about that,” he answered seriously. “She was guillotined!”
‘I looked at him in astonishment. “What do you mean?” I stammered.
‘But he could not answer me immediately. The “woman with the velvet band”, having greeted the Secretary of the Navy, came down the room towards us, stopped and held out her hand to my friend.
“‘Good evening, Pietro Santo,” she said, and I noticed that her head never moved from its rigid position.
‘He mumbled something and bowed, and she went on. All the eyes in the room were focused on her and deep silence had fallen. I noticed then that she was escorted by a handsome, well-built fellow of about thirty.
His face had the fine profile often found on old Greek coins. These delicate features are frequently seen among the Corsicans and sometimes give them a family resemblance with the great emperor.
‘“He’s her second husband,” Pietro Santo whispered, noticing my gaze.
‘The couple disappeared at this moment, and I was conscious of a sigh of relief rising throughout the room, while an old man in a corner crossed himself, muttering a prayer.
‘“They never stay very long,” Pietro Santo explained, “because they’re not on very good terms with the present Mayor, Ascoli. Angeluccia - that is her name - has always been proud and ambitious and she wanted her second husband, Giuseppe Girgenti, to be Mayor like her first one. But they were defeated at the last elections and I think they always will be because of the guillotine affair.”
‘I started and caught my friend by the arm. He smiled.
‘“Oh,” he exclaimed, “you’d like to know the story... I hear the Mayor telling it to the Secretary this minute; but he doesn’t know it as well as I do... You see Captain, I was a member of the household and I saw everything even to the bottom of the basket!”
“‘Have a cigar, Santo?” I offered. “You’ve never smoked any as good as these.”
‘Pietro Santo took a cigar and I fumed with impatience while he chatted with the man who had interrupted us. Afterwards I suggested he come aboard my ship, for I was determined to know the rest of the story before I left Bonifacio.’
‘“And so,” I began, with a laugh, as soon as we were installed in my cabin, “you say that woman was guillotined?”
“‘You do wrong to laugh, sir,” he replied, extremely serious. “She was guillotined and it happened before the eyes of almost all the people you saw this evening. If you noticed, they all crossed themselves when she came into the room.”
‘I stared at him in open-eyed amazement and he went on simply. “That’s why she always wears that velvet band: to hide the scar!”
“‘Mr Santo, you’re making fun of me. I’m going to call on Angeluccia and ask her to take off the band before my eyes. I should like to see that scar.”
‘The man shook his head. “She wouldn’t take it off, sir. We all know that if she did her head would fall off.”
‘And so saying, he too made the sign of the cross. I studied him by the light of the little swinging lamp. With his curly hair and slight figure, he looked like a timid angel frightened at the sight of the devil, I could not help smiling.
“‘And yet Antonio Macci, Angeluccia’s first husband, was the best of men,” he sighed. “Who would ever suspect such a thing of him? I loved him, sir. He had been very good to me. He was an antique dealer and had brought me up in his shop. He was famous all through Corsica and known to many tourists to whom he sold souvenirs of Napoleon and the imperial family. He manufactured these curios, because the rage for them was such that the authentic pieces had long been sold and there were no more to be had. He made a fortune in this business, and the tourists were quite happy with their purchases, which they were firmly convinced were authentic. Antonio, however, never lost an opportunity to buy any revolutionary articles when the occasion offered. He was able to sell them at a good price to the English and Americans, who never left the island without first paying him a little visit.
‘“From time to time he made short trips to France to renew our stock, and I went with him the last time he went to Toulon. He had read in the papers that there were some very interesting pieces to be sold at auction and he was anxious to acquire them for his shop.
‘“We made a number of purchases that day. We bought a Bastille relief for 425 francs, Gen
eral Moreau’s bed for 215 francs, Mirabeau’s death mask for 1,000 francs, a bezel ring with some locks of Louis XVI’s hair for 1,200 francs, and last the famous guillotine which, it seems, Samson himself, the famous executioner, had used. This cost us 921 francs. And we returned home very well pleased with ourselves and our purchases.
‘“We found Angeluccia and her cousin Giuseppe waiting for us on the dock. The Deputy Mayor and a delegation from the Town Council were also waiting for us because Antonio, through his successful business, had become one of the most important men in the town and had been elected Mayor. He was about forty years old at the time and his wife twenty, but this great difference in age did not keep Angeluccia from loving her husband ardently. Giuseppe, however, who was about her age, obviously adored his cousin. Anyone could see it merely by the manner in which he looked at her. But be that as it may, I must add that I for my part had never seen anything in the behaviour of the two to justify the slightest suspicion in the husband. Angeluccia herself was too honest and too upright in her actions to give poor Giuseppe any chance to forget her marital duties. And I never believed that he would have had the daring to attempt such an enterprise. He loved Angeluccia. That was all. And my master knew it as well as the rest of us. Perfectly sure of his wife, he used to joke with her sometimes about it.
‘“Angeluccia, who was kind by nature, asked him to spare her poor cousin and not make too much fun of him because Antonio would never find his equal in imitating and redoing furniture of the Empire and Louis XVI. Giuseppe, in fact, was a real artist. Besides, he knew all of Antonio’s business secrets, which was probably why the dealer tolerated a workman who looked at his wife with such eloquent eyes.
‘“Giuseppe’s forlorn love made him rather melancholy; but Angeluccia was always gay. She had not yet become the funereal beauty you see today. She laughed often and was affectionate and happy with her husband like any good little wife who has nothing on her conscience.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 512