‘“Heavens,” he said, “it’s not good for you to pray like that. Come, I’m sure our boy is already awake and watching for us to come back.”
‘“Yes, yes,” she said, “let’s hurry along.”
‘And she led him on as though she was really trying to flee something. He had difficulty in keeping up with her. He was all out of breath when they reached the avenue, and he tried to make her slow up a little.
‘“No, not yet,” she said. “We must get back as quick as ever we can.”
‘He thought she was afraid to be out in the streets of that district at such a late hour. As a matter of fact, that corner of Paris had never been more disquieting. The hurdy-gurdies had ceased groaning out their tirra-lirras. A few melancholy lights trembled down in the deserted avenue, and behind suspicious shadows, pleasure-seeking gentlemen eyed belated girls wandering up and down the streets.
‘However, the Vincents did get back home safe and sound. As soon as they were in their dining-room with the lamp lighted, the sight of the bright Christmas tree drove out of their heads all the ugly sight of the streets. From the foot of the staircase, Monsieur Vincent called to the maid, softly, so as not to wake up the child, but she didn’t answer. Just as he started to go up, Madame Vincent said:
‘“She dropped off to sleep beside Vincent. Don’t disturb her; let’s finish arranging everything here.”
‘Then, in great excitement, they put the last touches to the tree. They tied some more toys to the branches already weighted down with Punch and Judy boxes; they hung some dolls and some mechanical toys and some games they had bought from time to time during the year and laid away for this very moment. Papa Vincent was just getting ready to slip a general and his trumpet into the little shoes on the hearth when Mama Vincent stopped him short and said:
‘“No, no, not in the shoes. Don’t put anything in the shoes. I’ll take care of them!”
‘And she spread a napkin on the table, put some glasses on it, some plates and some little cakes, and brought out a bottle of champagne.
Then she lit the little rose candles on the tree. It was a real illumination. You’ve never seen anything gayer, prettier than that room all trimmed up in red and silver. The only thing lacking to start the party was baby Vincent himself.
‘“I’ll go upstairs and wake him up,” said his mother. “You wait for us down here.”
‘“And the shoes? Are you forgetting the shoes?” asked the father.
‘“No, I’m not forgetting them. It’s a surprise; you shall see.”
“‘Good... all right.”
‘She disappeared for a second into the kitchen and took from a case an object which she hid quickly under the cloak she hadn’t taken off since they had come back from the mass.
“‘Ha, ha, I caught you at it, sly one,” laughed Monsieur Vincent. “Come, let me see the surprise too; show it to me.”
‘“Go along with you; you’re more of a child than little Vincent. Go back to the dining-room. I want you to, my dear.”
‘It was always his way to do everything she told him to. He went back and sat down again in front of the Christmas tree. As for her, she hurried to the floor above.
‘She ran up the stairs so fast that she had to stop a moment on the landing. Her heart beat so furiously it almost choked her. On her right hand was the half-open door of the room where little Vincent lay sleeping; on the left a closed door leading to their own bedroom. Before this one she stopped, drew a key from her pocket, unlocked the door, closed it behind her and found herself in pitch blackness. Feeling her way along, she came to the fire-place, kicking to right and left the objects she stumbled on. At last her fingers touched a box of matches; she struck one; she found a candle and lighted up the room.
‘Suddenly the flickering light of the candle revealed a terrible disorder. Sheets and mattresses snatched from the bed lay strewn across the floor; night table and centre table were turned upside down; toilet objects had been smashed, a mirrored wardrobe completely ransacked, the clothes thrown here, there and everywhere; several window-panes had been shivered into a thousand pieces. Finally she noticed the sticky, black traces of old slippers by whose aid someone had tried to muffle his footsteps — for the room had certainly been the scene of a robbery.
‘The candlelight, flickering and leaping in the breeze blowing in through the window, added weird shadows to the fantastic horror of that scene of devastation.
‘To leave the warm atmosphere of the Christmas celebration, of the soft enchantment of that room below where everything is prepared for the sweetest and purest of family joys and to wake up suddenly in the midst of that icy fear - wasn’t that more than enough to congeal forever the simple heart of good Madame Vincent? In any case, even if that heart did still beat after such a shock, what inexpressible anguish must have seized little Vincent’s mother when she thought of her baby asleep only two steps from that tragic spot, devastated as pitiably as though a tornado had raged through it!
‘Well, no... Madame Vincent, walking so cautiously in the midst of that disorder, the candle in one hand and a knife in the other - a huge kitchen knife quite new, the mysterious object she was hiding under her cloak a little while ago - Madame Vincent showed neither surprise nor fear.’
‘She knew there had been a robbery and she had kept it from her husband so as not to spoil the Christmas party,’ broke in Bagatelle, who was not at all lacking in common sense.
‘But I’ve already told you there had been no robbery.’
‘You’ve gone daft and I’m going crazy... well, never mind; but what about that woman? What did she have to do with all this business?’
‘Everything. She was the one who committed the robbery.’
‘Good God! My head’s cracking open with your damn story. All right... go on. When she saw what had happened what did she do, old woman Vincent?’
‘She went into little Vincent’s room; she woke up the dozing maid; she sent her up to her own room to finish off her night’s sleep. Then there was little Vincent who opens his pretty blue eyes in his mother’s arms. He doesn’t cry. He knows it’s Christmas. He’s been dreaming about it. He wakes up with the idea of all the gifts waiting for him downstairs. He claps his little hands together and gurgles, ‘Christmas, Christmas’, and the kisses he bites from his mama’s cheeks taste as sweet to him as though they were chocolate nougats.
‘The little angel is as happy as he can be. He stretches out his arms towards the sparkling Christmas tree. He wants to touch everything, take everything in his hands, play with everything at the same time. His papa and mama can hardly seem to keep him satisfied.
‘Then all of a sudden his merry eyes fall on his little shoes on the hearth. He sees they are empty. He begins to cry.
‘Papa Vincent looks reproachfully at Mama Vincent. “Why did you make him unhappy?” he asks. But Mama takes her little one in her arms; she consoles him, cuddles him, dries his tears.
‘“Little Jesus didn’t want to bring everything to you tonight. Little Jesus will come again tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning there will be some beautiful presents in little Vincent’s shoes.”
‘“Will there truly, Mama?”
“‘I promise you there will be, my darling baby.”
‘His mother’s words bring smiles of joy back to Vincent’s eyes again.
‘“But what surprise are you keeping back from him?” asked the father in a low voice.
‘“You shall see, you shall see,” Mama answers with an air of mystery.
‘And Mama Vincent takes her good husband’s head, draws it down to the baby’s and covers both of them with big, passionate kisses and silent tears. This demonstration, so unexpected and somewhat nervous, makes Papa Vincent a little anxious.
‘“You frighten me,” he whispers to his wife.
‘“Let’s eat some supper,” she answers.
‘And they sit down quietly to their supper and she pours out the champagne and the child is allowed to dip
his lips in the foam. Then, his arms still grasping the toys, he dozes off to sleep again on his father’s knee.
“‘Carry him back up to his little crib,” says Mama. “Stay with him a few minutes to be sure he drops back to sleep. I’ll go and put out the candles on the tree and then I’ll come up to bed.”
‘Papa Vincent does as she tells him. Mama Vincent blows out all the candles quickly. Now all is dark where a few minutes before the Christmas tree was glittering and pink. By the feeble rays of the light coming from Vincent’s room, she climbs the stairs. Her legs tremble under the weight of her body and she holds on to the banister as though she were afraid she would fall backwards. She sighs with relief when she reaches the landing.
‘“What’s the matter with you?” her husband asks in a low voice from the boy’s bedroom.
‘But Mama Vincent doesn’t answer. She is too weak to speak. She turns her eyes away from her son’s crib. She pushes open the door of the ransacked room. She ploughs through the disorder; she lights a candle. Once again her eyes take in the sickening horror of it all.
‘She grasps the knife — the big, new, shiny kitchen knife, so finely sharpened — and she places herself behind the door.
‘Her husband calls out to her from the other room; he gets no answer.
‘He appears, his broad chest well lighted by the reddish fight of the sputtering candle flame. He asks: “Why don’t you answer, my de—”
‘But he is not able to finish the word.
‘Mama Vincent stretched forth her arm and struck two terrible blows. The man uttered a shriek and fell down. But she threw herself upon him and covered his mouth with her hand.
“‘Be quiet... don’t speak.”
‘“Ah, it’s you,” he said through his struggling breath. “It’s you.”
‘“Yes, it is I. Don’t speak.”
‘Between two snatches of breath the man has enough strength to say: “At least, shut - the door.”
‘She drags herself to the door, closes it again and comes back to the big, bleeding body which she now stares at with eyes full of tears and terror.
“‘My dear, my dear wife,” sighs the wretched man, “you did right. But are you sure everything is well thought out? Will there by any suspicions?”
“‘No, no, no one will suspect anything.” And she stretched herself out beside him and pressed her lips upon her victim’s.
“‘Don’t you forgive me?”
‘“Of course I forgive you. You had — more courage than I had.”
‘“Don’t say that. But if I had let you do it you would have killed yourself and they would have known that you were a suicide. I made believe a robbery.’
“‘You did right - yes — it was complete ruin - worse than I told you the night before last. The business utterly wiped out... not a penny left... manager fled... all the employees’ savings squandered. You have done just right, my dear wife.”
‘He closed his eyes and said nothing more. She thought he was dead. Carefully she drew the knife out of the horrible wound. Then his eyelids moved once more.
‘“What are you doing?” he asked with one breath.
‘“Nothing.”
‘“Don’t touch it,” he said again, “don’t touch the knife.”
‘“Be quiet, my dear. They would, you understand, ask me some questions. I must not be - able to answer. They must think we’ve been murdered - both of us... you understand? Vincent — if possible, don’t die before I do - wait, wait. Here, let me have your hand — help me - do that little thing for me — help me - Vincent. There — like that — strong — ah ah!’
‘Helped by Vincent’s hand, she buried the knife in her heart — deliberately — steadily — and as she died she whispered: “My little boy, Vincent, one hundred thousand francs in — your little shoes.”’
John-Joseph ceased. Bagatelle looked at him more stunned than terror-struck. ‘How’s that?’ he said; ‘what did she mean, one hundred thousand francs in the little shoes?’
John-Joseph began to blubber again. ‘Father Vincent didn’t die till the next day. He had time to explain to me that he would not have been able to pay the premium on the life insurance he had taken out in favour of his little son. They were both too old to take up some new kind of work. In this way they were sure that little Vincent would never want for anything.’
Bagatelle didn’t feel like joking any more. ‘So, then, the woman in the story, she’s Mama Vincent?’
‘Exactly,’ replied John-Joseph. ‘Have you ever seen a couple who loved each other like that?’
‘Oh, pooh,’ answered Bagatelle, shaking his head. ‘It’s a damn good love story - I won’t say no to that - but nobody would ever say there was anything very horrible about it.’
IN LETTERS OF FIRE
Anonymous translation, The Strand Magazine, June 1908
WE HAD BEEN out hunting wild boars all day, when we were overtaken by a violent storm, which compelled us to seek refuge in a deep cavern. It was Makoko, our guide, who took upon himself to give utterance to the thought which haunted the minds of the four of us who had sought safety from the fury of the tempest - Mathis, Allan, Makoko, and myself.
‘If the gentleman who lives in yonder house, which is said to be haunted by the devil, does not grant us the shelter of his roof tonight, we shall be compelled to sleep here.’
Hardly had he uttered the words when a strange figure appeared at the entrance to the cavern.
‘It is he.’ exclaimed Makoko, grasping my arm.
I stared at the stranger.
He was tall, lanky, of bony frame, and melancholy aspect. Unconscious of our presence, he stood leaning on his fowling piece at the entrance of the cavern, showing a strong aquiline nose, a thin moustache, a stern mouth, and lacklustre eyes. He was bareheaded; his hair was thin, while a few grey locks fell behind his ears. His age might have been anywhere between forty and sixty. He must have been strikingly handsome in the days when the light still shone in those time-dimmed eyes and those bitter lips could still break into a smile - but handsome in a haughty and forbidding style. A kind of terrible energy still lurked beneath his features, spectral as those of an apparition.
By his side stood a hairless dog, low on its legs, which was evidently barking at us. Yet we could hear nothing! The dog, it was plain, was dumb, and barked at us in silence.
Suddenly the man turned towards us, and said in a voice of the most exquisite politeness:
‘Gentlemen, it is out of the question for you to return to La Chaux-de-Fonds tonight. Permit me to offer you my hospitality.’
Then, bending over his dog, he said:
‘Stop barking, Mystère.’
The dog closed his jaws at once.
Makoko emitted a grunt. During the five hours that we had been enjoying the chase, Mathis and Makoko had told Allan and myself, who were strangers to the district, some strange and startling stories about our host, whom they represented as having had, like Faust, dealings with the Evil Spirit.
It was not without some trepidation, therefore, that we all moved out of the cavern.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the stranger, with a melancholy smile, ‘it is many a long year since my door was thrown open to visitors. I am not fond of society, but I must tell you that one night, six months ago, a youth who had lost his way came and knocked at that door and begged for shelter till the morning. I refused him his request. Next day a body was found at the bottom of the big marl-pit - a body partly devoured by wolves.’
‘Why, that must have been Petit-Leduc!’ cried Makoko. ‘So you were heartless enough to turn the poor lad away, at night and in the midst of winter! You are his murderer!’
‘Truly spoken,’ replied the man, simply. ‘It was I who killed him. And now you see, gentlemen, that the incident has rendered me hospitable.’
‘Would you tell us why you drove him from your door?’ growled Makoko.
‘Because,’ he replied, quietly, ‘my house brings misfortune.’
‘I would rather risk meeting the powers of darkness than catching a cold in the head,’ I retorted, laughing, and without further parley we set off, and in a short while had reached the door of the ancient mansion, which stood among the most desolate surroundings, on a shelf of barren rock, swept by all the winds of heaven.
The huge door, antique, iron-barred, and studded with enormous nails, revolved slowly on its hinges, and opened noiselessly. A shrunken little old dame was there to welcome us.
From the threshold we could see a large, high room, somewhat similar to the room formerly styled the retainers’ hall. It certainly constituted a part of what remained of the castle, on the ruins of which the mansion had been erected some centuries before. It was folly lighted by the fire on the enormous hearth, where a huge log was burning, and by two paraffin lamps hanging by chains from the stone roof. There was no furniture except a heavy table of white wood, a large armchair upholstered in leather, a few stools, and a rude sideboard.
We walked the length of the room. The old woman opened a door. We found ourselves at the foot of a worm-eaten staircase with sunken steps. This staircase, a spiral one, led to the second storey of the building, where the old woman showed us to our rooms.
To this day I can recall our host - were I to live a hundred years I could not forget that figure such as it appeared to me, as if framed by the fireplace - when I went into the hall where Mother Appenzel had spread our supper.
He was standing in front of my friends, on the stone hearth of that enormous fireplace. He was in evening dress - but such evening dress! It was in the pink of fashion, but a fashion long since vanished. The high collar of the coat, the broad lapels, the velvet waistcoat, the silken knee-breeches and stockings, the cravat, all seemed to possess the elegance of days gone by.
By his side lay his dog Mystère, his massive jaws parted in a yawn - yawning, just as he had barked, in silence.
‘Has your dog been dumb for long?’ I ventured to ask. ‘What strange accident has happened to him?’
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 515