Rouletabille and the Mystery of the Yellow Room

  Rouletabille and the

  Mystery of the Yellow Room

  by

  Gaston Leroux

  adapted in English by

  Jean-Marc & Randy Lofficier

  A Black Coat Press Book

  Foreword

  Pierre Reverdy said: “There is no such thing as love; only proof of love.” An admirable precept which can be applied to other fields. For instance: “There is no such thing as genius; only proof of genius.”

  There are also no such things as minor arts. The only thing there is, is the strange marriage of the conscious with the unconscious mind, the exquisite spark generated by the contact between wisdom and the schizophrenic twin whom we all carry within ourselves, and of which we are generally ashamed.

  Poetry is the monster born of that strange marriage, that brutal coupling between the extraordinary and the ordinary. Personally, I don’t care about the size and strength of said monster. The essential thing is that IT should be born. I ask for nothing else.

  What I speak of is very different from the gifts granted to Shakespeare, Hugo, Goethe, Beethoven or Wagner. Instead, IT reminds us of Stendhal who, when talking about a woman descending from a coach, said that she did it with genius.

  This allows us to respect, adore and applaud that phenomenon known as genius, whether it is manifested in Offenbach or Mozart, or to salute a song by Charles Trenet rather than one of those heavy compositions that modern orchestras inflict upon us, where idiocy is more painful to hear than to see.1

  The purpose of this foreword is to convince you that The Mystery of the Yellow Room deserves compliments far above those it usually receives, and also to acknowledge that, under Fantômas’ cloak, some writers of popular literature should be unreservedly loved. And if I say “loved,” it is because that word isn’t understood by intellectuals, and because admiration is nothing but another form of love, a transcendant form of sexuality, as if it came from the soul’s very skin, sensitive or insensitive to some forms of beauty, causing or not causing a moral erection, proof that the admiration that one’s mind feels towards a work is true and sincere, and not mere diletantism.

  Long have I sought refuge from poetic or realistic literature in books whose authors ignore that poetry and truth haunt them, lift them above their station, and even, I might add, above the contempt they claim to feel towards a genre that they deem unworthy of their talents, whereas they err when they try to aim higher.

  We found proof of this, Apollinaire and I, when the authors of Fantômas, surprised by our enthusiasm, told us that they could write more sophisticated novels. But these allegedly sophisticated novels turned out to be disconcertingly unsophisticated. They demonstrated, once again, the primality of child-like genius, a genius that a poorly educated person, ignorant of the College of the Muses, may confuse with clumsiness and random luck.

  This was not the case, however, with Gaston Leroux. He was always modest, in the true sense of the word, and never pretended to write badly in order to better surprise us with alleged literary masterpieces.

  In this family of authors, it is not the plot, nor the cliffhangers, which matter, but the dream-like, dark atmosphere and the sense of foreboding which characterize the world inhabited by their heroes, like a dark orchestra accompanying the story they are telling us without the least derision. From that very lack of disdain springs a marvelous authenticity, a firm balance between the mystery they offer us, and their skill in solving it.

  Larsan’s long cane… That cane seems to me the very example of a leitmotif, like the magical Perfume of the Lady in Black, from Rouletabille’s complaint…

  The readers who agree with me should study the realm of which Leroux was a Prince, and look back to its King: Edgar Allan Poe; they should reread The Murders in the Rue Morgue and, suddenly, enchanted by a world which they thought was only a half-world, they should go looking for its rulers, at the head of which is Gaston Leroux, who triumphs from the indifference which has swallowed up so many more so-called serious writers.

  Jean Cocteau 2

  THE MYSTERY OF THE YELLOW ROOM

  Chapter One

  In Which We Begin To Not Understand

  It is not without some emotion that I begin here to recount the extraordinary adventures of Joseph Rouletabille. Until very recently, he was so firmly opposed to my telling his story that I had come to despair of ever publishing my accounts of some of the most bizarre criminal affairs of the last 15 years. I had thought that the public would never learn the truth about the prodigious “Mystery of the Yellow Room,” which provoked many strange and sensational press articles, and in which my friend was closely involved.

  It was only when the illustrious Professor Stangerson was recently nominated for the Grand-Croix of the Légion d’Honneur, and, as a result, one of the evening newspapers printed a remarkably bold, ignorant and perfidious article about that terrible affair, that Rouletabille gave me his permission, while confiding in me that he truly wished that this case had been forgotten.

  The Mystery of the Yellow Room! Does anyone still remember this criminal affair, which caused so much ink to flow over our presses 15 years ago?3 Public events quickly become ancient history in Paris. Have not the very name of the Marquis de Nayve, his trial, and the tragic death of little Menaldo, been all but forgotten?4 And yet, the public was so fascinated by every detail of that trial at that time, that a ministerial crisis went completely unnoticed.

  The Mystery of the Yellow Room, which preceded the trial of the Marquis de Nayve by a few years, made an even bigger splash. The entire world spent months trying to solve this seemingly unsolvable enigma—the most baffling, or so it seemed, that had ever challenged the perspicacity of the French police or taxed the minds of our Magistrates. The solution to the problem mystified everyone who tried to unravel it. It was a dramatic puzzle that fascinated Old Europe and America alike. I feel able to say this in all candor, because there is no petty author’s vanity at stake here; I am merely a transcriber of the events that happened, and my unique access to Rouletabille has enabled me to cast them in a new light. I believe I do not know of any other similar mystery, whether it be the famous Murders in the Rue Morgue or the extravagant cases of the notorious Mister Sherlock Holmes, that can be compared to THE MYSTERY, the “very simple mystery” to quote Rouletabille, of the Yellow Room.

  A mystery which no one could solve, Joseph Rouletabille, then merely 18, a junior reporter for a leading Parisian newspaper, succeeded in disentangling. But when, at the Court of Assize, he explained the solution to the whole affair, he did not tell the whole truth. He told only enough to ensure the acquittal of an innocent man. But now, the reasons for his reserve no longer exist, so, the time has come for my friend to speak out. You will learn everything. Without further ado, I am going to lay out before you the Mystery of the Yellow Room, as it unfolded before the eyes of the entire world on the day following the dramatic events that took place at the Chateau du Glandier.

  On October 25, 1892, the following article appeared in the morning edition of the newspaper Le Temps:

  A frightful crime was committed at the Chateau du Glandier, on the edge of the forest of Sainte Genevieve, near Epinay-sur-Orge, at the house of Professor Stangerson. During the night, while the renowned scientist was working in his laboratory, an unknown murderer tried to kill his daughter, Mademoiselle Mathilde Stangerson, who was sleeping in a room adjacent to the laboratory. The doctors have issued no prognostic regarding Mademoiselle Stangerson’s possible recovery.

  The sensation caused by this news in Paris can easily be imagined. The scientific world was then already deeply interested i
n the work of Professor Stangerson and his daughter. Their labors—the first attempts at establishing the science of radiography—later paved the way for Monsieur and Madame Curie’s discovery of radium. Professor Stangerson was expected to present a report to the Academy of Sciences on his sensational new theory about the Dissociation of Matter, a theory that, some said, would overturn the established principles of conventional physics, including that of the Conservation of Energy.

  On the following day, the newspapers were full of the tragedy. Le Matin, among others, published the following article, entitled: A Supernatural Crime:

  These are the only details, wrote the anonymous reporter assigned to the story, that we have been able to ascertain regarding the crime committed at the Chateau du Glandier. Professor Stangerson’s state of despair, and the impossibility of obtaining any first-hand information from the victim herself, have made our inquiries and those of the police so difficult that, at present, we cannot accurately tell what actually took place inside the Yellow Room, where Mademoiselle Stangerson was found, in her night-dress, lying on the floor, gravely wounded.

  We have, however, interviewed Jacques-Louis Moustier, an old servant of the Stangersons, known in the region as “Père Jacques.” He claimed to have entered the Yellow Room at the same time as the Professor. This room is adjacent to the Professor’s laboratory. Both it and the Yellow Room are in a small pavilion located at the end of the grounds, about 300 meters from the Chateau itself.

  “It happened at 12:30 a.m.,” the good man told us. “I was working with the Professor in the laboratory, cleaning and putting away his instruments, waiting for him to be ready to retire for the night. Mademoiselle Stangerson had worked with her father until midnight. When the clock chimed 12, she rose and kissed her father good night. She said to me, ‘Good night, Père Jacques,’ as she went into the Yellow Room. We heard her lock the door and shoot the bolt. I couldn’t help laughing and said to the Professor: ‘Mademoiselle’s double-locking herself in; she must be afraid of the Holy Beast.’ But the Professor was so deeply absorbed in what he was doing that he didn’t even hear me. Just then, I heard an awful scream outside, which I recognized as that of the Beast. It sent chills up my spine… ‘Is that thing going to keep me awake all night?’ I said to myself; for I must tell you, Monsieur, that until the end of October, I sleep in an attic directly above the Yellow Room, so that Mademoiselle is not left all alone here. It is her fancy to spend the summer months in the pavilion, which she probably finds more cheerful than the Chateau. During the four years since it’s been built, she’s never failed to take up her lodging in the pavilion in the spring. When winter returns, she moves back into the Chateau, because there is no fireplace in the Yellow Room.

  “We were alone in the pavilion, then, the Professor and I. We made no noise. He was seated at his desk. As for me, I was sitting on a chair, having finished my work. Looking at him, I said to myself: ‘What a man! What intelligence! What science!’ I stress the fact that we made no noise, for, because of that, the assassin certainly thought that we had left the laboratory. Suddenly, when the clock chimed half past midnight, a desperate scream came from the Yellow Room. It was Mademoiselle Stangerson’s voice, crying out: ‘Murder! Murder! Help!’ Immediately afterwards, gunshots rang out and there was a great fracas of tables and furniture being overturned, as if in a struggle. Again, we heard the voice of Mademoiselle Stangerson calling: ‘Murder! Help! Papa! Papa!’

  “You can be sure that we quickly sprang up and that Professor Stangerson and I threw ourselves upon the door. But, alas, it was locked, tightly locked on the inside with both key and bolt by Mademoiselle herself, as I told you. We tried to force the door open, but it remained firm. The Professor was like a madman, and, in truth, what we heard would have been enough to cause any father to go mad. Mademoiselle was still shouting: ‘Help! Help!’ The Professor struck terrible blows upon the door, weeping with rage, sobbing in despair and helplessness.

  “That’s when I was struck by an inspiration. ‘The assassin must have come in through the window!’ I said. ‘I’ll get there myself!’ and I rushed out of the pavilion running as if chased by demons.

  “The problem is that the window of the Yellow Room looks out not onto the grounds, but onto the woods outside the estate. Because the outside wall abuts to the pavilion, in order to reach that window, one must first exit the property. I ran towards the main gate and, on my way, I met our caretakers, Monsieur Bernier and his wife, who had been awakened by the gunshots and the screams. In a few words, I told Bernier what happened, and instructed him to go and help the Professor at once. Meanwhile, Madame Bernier opened the gate and no more than five minutes later, she and I stood before the window of the Yellow Room.

  “The Moon was shining brightly and I saw clearly that no one had touched the window. Not only were the bars that protect it intact, but the shutters were shut on the inside, just as I had closed them myself earlier that evening, as I do every night, even though Mademoiselle Stangerson, knowing that I’m tired from all the heavy work I’ve been doing, has begged me not to trouble myself, and leave her to do it. The shutters were just as I had left them, fastened with an iron catch on the inside. The would-be murderer, therefore, could not have passed either in or out that way—but I was unable to gain entry!

  “It was an unfortunate turn of events, enough to make one scream! The door of the room was locked on the inside, the shutters on the only window were also fastened on the inside. All the while, Mademoiselle Stangerson was still begging for help!... No! Her screams had stopped. Perhaps, she is already dead, I thought. But I still heard her father, inside the pavilion, trying to break down the door.

  “Madame Bernier and I hurried back to the pavilion. The door, despite the Professor and the caretaker’s furious attempts to open it, was still holding firm. But it finally gave way before our combined efforts and we rushed into the Yellow Room. What a sight met our eyes! I should tell you that, behind us, the caretaker held the laboratory lamp, a powerful lamp that lit the whole room.

  “I must also tell you, Monsieur, that the Yellow Room is small. Mademoiselle Stangerson had furnished it with a fairly large iron bedstead, a small table, a night stand, a dressing-table, and two chairs. By the light of the lamp, we saw everything at a glance. Mademoiselle Stangerson, in her night-dress, was lying on the floor in the greatest disarray. The tables and chairs had been overturned, the sign of a violent struggle. Mademoiselle Stangerson looked as if she had been dragged from her bed. She was covered with blood and there were terrible fingernail marks on her throat. The flesh of her neck was almost entirely torn away. From a wound on her right temple, a stream of blood had run down and made a small pool on the floor.

  “When Professor Stangerson saw his daughter in that state, he threw himself on his knees at her side, uttering a cry of despair. He ascertained that she was still breathing. As for us, we searched for the wretch who had tried to kill our Mademoiselle, and I swear to you, Monsieur, that if we had found him, it would have gone badly for him!

  “But how can I explain to you that he wasn’t there, that he had already escaped? It was beyond imagination! There was no one under the bed, no one hiding behind the furniture! All that we discovered was the blood-stained handprints of a man on the walls and the door; a large blood-soaked handkerchief, without any markings, an old béret, and, on the floor, a set of footprints in some kind of black soot that had been made recently by a man with large feet. How had that man gotten away? How had he vanished? Don’t forget, Monsieur, that there was no fireplace in the Yellow Room. He could not have slipped through the doorway, which was narrow, and on the threshold of which Madame Bernier stood with her lamp, while her husband and I were searching every corner of that tiny room, where it was impossible to hide! The door, which had been forced open, had been pushed back against the wall, and as we quickly ascertained, no one could have been hiding behind it. The window was still secured behind the bars, untouched, and the shutters were still
bolted. There was no escape possible through there. What then? I began to believe that it was the work of the Devil himself…

  “Then, we discovered my revolver on the floor! Yes, my very own gun! That brought me back to my semses! The Devil would not have needed to steal my revolver to kill Mademoiselle Stangerson. The would-be murderer must have first gone up to my attic and taken my revolver from the drawer where I normally kept it. We then determined, by counting the cartridges left inside, that the wretch had fired two shots. Ah! I was lucky that Professor Stangerson was with me in the laboratory when this nasty business took place, and that he had seen me there with his own eyes, because otherwise, with my gun found at the scene of the crime, it might have gone badly for me. Why, I might have been arrested and locked up right away! Justice is always in a hurry to send a man to the scaffold!”

  The reporter of Le Matin then added the following paragraphs:

  We have printed here Père Jacques’ entire account of the Mystery of the Yellow Room in his own words, uncut except for some judicious editing of his string of repetitive lamentations. It is clear that Père Jacques is very devoted to Professor Stangerson and his daughter, and that he feels the need to say so repeatedly, especially since it was his gun that was found in the Yellow Room. It certainly is his right, and we see no harm in him doing so in our paper. We should have liked to ask him more questions, but we were prevented from doing so when he was summoned by Monsieur de Marquet, the Investigating Magistrate from Corbeil, who has begun his inquiry at the Chateau. It was impossible for us to gain admission at Glandier later, and the grounds themselves were cordoned off by the police, who were carefully checking all trails leading to and from the pavilion, which might help discover the identity of the would-be murderer.