The Perfume of the Lady in Black Read online

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I said, nodding desperately, ‘your reason will, of course, find itself.’

  ‘Well, then, my dear fellow,’ he said, ‘go to bed. You’re half-asleep already.’

  CHAPTER IX

  The unexpected arrival of Old Bob

  When Madame Bernier, on Rouletabille’s orders, came to wake me at eleven o’clock, I rose hurriedly and went to the window. The view was superb, and the sea so clear that the sun’s rays shone through it as if through a sheet of glass, so that the sand and seaweed were as clearly visible as if there were no waves at all above them.

  The graceful curve of the Menton coast formed a flowery backdrop to the scene. The villas at Garavan, all pink and white, seemed to have blossomed in the night. The Hercules Peninsula was like a bouquet floating on the water, and the old castle was laden with sweet perfumes. Never had Nature seemed to me gentler or more inviting. The balmy breeze, the lazy coast, the still sea, the purple mountains, all contributed to a picture which, in the mind of a Northerner like myself, suggested all manner of delightful things.

  It was then that I noticed a man striking the sea. He struck it with all his might. If I had been a poet, I would have wept to witness such a sight. The wretch seemed in a terrible rage.

  I could not imagine what was the cause of his anger, but he was obviously furious, for he was armed with an enormous club and, standing in his little boat, rowed by a timid child, he was raining down blows upon the tranquil waters until some tourists, watching from the shore, cried out with indignation.

  However, as generally happens in these cases, they did not interfere. What could be the matter? Perhaps the very calmness of the sea was what drove the maniac to such violence, for as soon as he left off striking it, the ruffled surface once again resumed its mirror-like smoothness.

  Suddenly, I heard Rouletabille’s friendly voice telling me that lunch would be ready at twelve. He looked for all the world like a stonemason. His clothes were covered with plaster, indicating that he had been examining the fresh masonry. In one hand he held a foot rule and in the other a plumb line. I asked him if he had seen the man beating the water, and he told me that it was Tullio, who did it to frighten the fish and drive them into his nets. Now I understood why Tullio was called ‘The Scourge of the Sea’.

  He said he had questioned Tullio that morning concerning the passenger he had carried the previous evening, and that Tullio had claimed to know nothing about him, except that he was rather a strange chap, who had got in his boat at Menton and paid him five francs to row him to the point below Rochers Rouges.

  I dressed quickly and joined Rouletabille below. He told me that a new guest was expected for luncheon, and that he was none other than Old Bob. We waited some time for him, but when he did not appear, we took our places at table on the flower-laden terrace of Charles the Bold’s Tower.

  A delicious bouillabaisse prepared by the Restaurant des Grottes, reputed to make the best bouillabaisse on the whole Riviera, and a few flasks of the local wine contributed, as much as Rouletabille’s warlike precautions, to restoring our peace of mind.

  The truth is that we were less afraid of Larsan beneath that shining sun than we were beneath the ghostly light of the moon. Oh, how easily human nature forgets and how easily it is frightened! I am ashamed to confess that we were quite willing to smile – I speak for myself and for Mr and Mrs Rance, whose romantic character was entirely superficial – at our nocturnal fears and our armed guard upon the ramparts of the citadel. Then Old Bob made his appearance. And yet the sight of him was hardly one to arouse gloomy thoughts.

  I have never seen a more jovial sight than Old Bob walking along in the brilliant southern sunshine, with his white hair and pink cheeks, dressed all in black: black silk hat, frock coat, waistcoat, trousers and dark glasses. We all laughed merrily that fine noontide under the palm arbour, and Old Bob laughed with us, for he was the spirit of gaiety itself.

  What was that aged scholar doing at the Chateau d’Hercule? What had persuaded him to leave his work, his drawings, his collections and his museum in Philadelphia? It must not be forgotten that Arthur Rance was already a promising phrenologist, when his unfortunate love for Mlle Stangerson made him lose all taste for study. However, after his marriage to Miss Edith Prescott, he had once more turned his attention to the science that had fascinated Gall and Lavater.

  It happened that in the autumn preceding the events narrated in this story – just when Rance and his bride were travelling on the Riviera – a great fuss was being made about some new discoveries by M. Abbo at Rochers Rouges, still known in the local patois as ‘Baoussé-Roussé’.

  Since 1874, geologists, and anyone else with an interest in prehistoric matters, had been studying the human remains that had been discovered in the caves at Rochers Rouges. Such well-known scientists as Messieurs Julien, Rivière, Girardin and Delesot, had worked there and had succeeded in interesting the Ministry of Education in their discoveries.

  These discoveries caused a sensation, for they proved beyond doubt that the first men had dwelt here before the Ice Age. To be sure, it had been known that man had been there in the Quaternary, but since that period was about two thousand years ago, it was satisfying to be able to fix, with some sort of accuracy, the precise epoch during that period when man had actually lived there. The excavations continued and continually brought forth new surprises.

  However, the finest cave, the Barma Grande, had remained untouched, for it was the private property of M. Abbo, who owned the Restaurant des Grottes along the coast not far from there. A rumour arose, and rapidly spread all over the world, to the effect that human bones had just been found in the Barma Cave, perfectly preserved skeletons which would seem to date from the time of the mammoths at the beginning of the Quaternary or even the end of the Tertiary.

  While Arthur Rance was busy digging amongst the mould for 200,000-year-old bones, his young wife spent her time wandering among the ruins of an old castle nearby, which was connected to the mainland by a few rocks that had crumbled from the cliffs. The most romantic legends were attached to these remains from the old Genoese wars, and, looking down from her tower at one of the most beautiful scenes in the world, Edith imagined that she was one of those fair damsels of ancient days she so enjoyed reading about.

  The castle was for sale, and Rance bought it, to the great joy of his wife, who immediately called in a small army of workmen, and in a few months had the ancient building transformed into a lovenest befitting the ideals of a young woman whose thoughts often dwelt upon the Lady of the Lake and the Bride of Lammermoor.

  When Rance saw the last skeleton to be unearthed in the famous cave, he was carried away with enthusiasm and immediately cabled Old Bob to tell him that it was quite possible that what Old Bob, at the cost of a thousand perils, had been seeking for years in the wilderness of Patagonia had been found only a few miles from Monte Carlo. His cable never reached its destination, though, for the old man, who had promised to join the young couple in a few months, had already sailed for Europe. He had, no doubt, heard all about the discovery in Barma Grande. In any case, he turned up at the castle soon afterwards and settled down in the company of his niece and her husband, filling the ancient citadel with the echoes of his laughter.

  Old Bob’s joviality struck us as rather theatrical, but that was doubtless because it was in such marked contrast to our general gloom. The old man had the soul of a child, but he was as fussy as an old maid, and took the greatest care over his appearance.

  When Mrs Rance introduced him to us, he gurgled pleasantly and began to laugh loudly, opening wide his great mouth in the midst of his full white whiskers. He was in fine form, and we soon discovered why. It seemed that he brought with him the proof, obtained from the Natural History Museum in Paris, that the skeleton found at Barma Grande was no older than the one he had unearthed in Tierra del Fuego. The entire Institute was of the same opinion and based its judgement upon the fact that the thigh-bone of Elephas ant
iquus, which the proprietor of Barma Grande had let the old fellow take to Paris, and which had been found in the same layer of earth as the celebrated human skeleton, belonged to an Elephas antiquus from the middle of the Quaternary.

  Oh, you should have heard Old Bob go on about these skeletons! He talked enthusiastically about the superiority of ‘his own skeleton’. He was so carried away with the greatness of his scientific triumph that he made no distinction between the skeleton he carried about with him all the time, covered with flesh and garbed in black, and the prehistoric bones which he had dug up in Tierra del Fuego.

  He would probably have gone on chattering exultantly all day if Mrs Rance had not interrupted him to say that Prince Galitch, who had bought the Romeo and Juliet Cave at Rochers Rouge, must have made some sensational discovery, for the day after her uncle had left for Paris, she had seen the Prince walking by the castle, carrying a little box, and he had sung out to her: ‘Look here, Mrs Rance, I’ve got a real treasure this time!’

  She had asked him what he had in the box, but he had teased her, declaring that he wouldn’t tell, because he wanted to surprise the old gentleman with it when he got back. Finally, however, Galitch had confessed to her that he had discovered ‘the oldest human skull in the world’.

  Mrs Rance had scarcely finished speaking when all Old Bob’s gaiety vanished. He fell into a terrible rage and bellowed:

  ‘It’s a lie! The oldest skull in the world belongs to me, it’s my skull!’ And he went on bellowing: ‘Mattoni, Mattoni, bring my trunk here at once!’

  It happened that Mattoni was just crossing the courtyard with Old Bob’s luggage on his back. He brought him the trunk and the old gentleman snatched the keys from his pocket, got down on to his knees and opened the trunk, which was filled with neatly folded clothes. In the midst of the clothing was a hatbox, and from that box Old Bob produced a skull, and set it down upon the table among the coffee cups.

  ‘That is the oldest skull in the world!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at it! I never go anyway without my skull!’

  He took it in his hands and began fondling it foolishly, laughing all the time. You can imagine the scene. Rouletabille and I could not control ourselves and burst into roars of laughter. He asked us angrily what it was we found so funny, and that only made us laugh all the more, so that even Madame Darzac had to wipe the tears of merriment from her eyes. The old chap was just too absurd with his ‘oldest skull in the world’. I was able, upon this occasion, to prove to myself that a 200,000-year-old skull is not at all a fearsome object, especially when, as with this one, it still has all its teeth.

  Suddenly Old Bob became quite serious. He took the skull in his right hand, and, with the finger of his left hand resting upon the forehead, began the following speech:

  ‘When the skull is looked at from above, you will notice a marked pentagonal shape. This is due to the pronounced development of the parietal and occipital lobes. The great width of the face is due to the exaggerated zygomatic development. Now, in the case of the Baoussé-Roussé troglodytes, what do I perceive?’

  I have no idea what he perceived just then in the troglodytes’ heads, for I was no longer listening, I was watching him. All the laughter had gone out of me. The old fellow seemed to me suddenly as artificial as a clown with his noisy gaiety and his trumped-up science. I could not take my eyes off him. I thought I saw his hair move! Just so! The way a wig moves! The idea of Larsan, never far from my mind, flashed through my brain, and I was about to speak when I felt an arm slip through mine, and Rouletabille drew me away.

  ‘What’s the matter, Sainclair?’ asked the young man affectionately.

  ‘I shan’t tell you, my friend,’ I said, ‘for you’ll only make fun of me again.’

  He did not answer me at once, but directed our steps towards the western ramparts. There, glancing around and seeing that we were alone, he said:

  ‘No, I wouldn’t make fun of you, for you are quite right to see him all around us. If he wasn’t there a minute ago, perhaps he is now. Oh, he is stronger than stone! He is stronger than everything! I am less afraid of him outside than in, and I should be glad if the stones I have called upon to help me keep him out, serve to hold him in, for, Sainclair, I feel that he is here!’

  I squeezed Rouletabille’s hand, for, curiously enough, I, too, had the same sensation. I felt Larsan’s eyes upon me, I heard him breathe. When had this feeling begun? I could not say exactly, but it seemed to coincide with the arrival of Old Bob.

  I asked Rouletabille anxiously:

  ‘How about Old Bob?’

  He took some time to answer, and then said:

  ‘Every five minutes take your right hand in your left and ask yourself, “Are you Larsan?” When you’ve answered yourself, don’t be too sure, for your hand may have lied to you and, for all you know, he may be inside your skin already!’

  Thereupon Rouletabille left me, and I was joined a few minutes later by Old Jacques. He brought me a telegram. Before opening it, I congratulated him on how fresh he looked. Like the rest of us he had sat up all night, but he explained that the pleasure it gave him to see his young mistress happy at last had made him feel ten years younger. He attempted to question me concerning the strange watch he had been ordered to keep. What lay behind everything that had happened since Rouletabille had come to the castle, and the unusual precautions taken to prevent any strangers from getting in? He added that if he didn’t know that the dreadful Larsan was dead, he’d be tempted to think we were afraid he might return. I told him that this was not the time to reason why, but that if he was a good fellow, he would, like all the other faithful servants, obey orders like a soldier and not try to understand, and especially not ask questions.

  He left me, nodding his head dolefully. The man was evidently much puzzled, but, as he stood on guard at the north gate, I was not displeased that he should think of Larsan. He, too, had nearly been Larsan’s victim and was not likely to forget it. He would, for that reason, be all the more watchful.

  I was in no hurry to open the telegram that Old Jacques had handed to me, but I was wrong, for a cursory glance made me realise its importance. My friend in Paris, who had already given me information concerning Brignolles’ movements, telegraphed me to say that the man had left on the previous night for the south. He had taken the 10.30 p.m. train. My friend added that he had reason to believe that Brignolles had bought a ticket for Nice.

  What business could Brignolles have in Nice I wondered, but with a foolish sense of pride, which I have since deeply regretted, I said nothing about it to Rouletabille. He had made such fun of me when I showed him the first message telling me that Brignolles was still in Paris that I decided not to mention to him that I had been advised of his departure.

  Since he considered Brignolles so insignificant, I would be careful not to bore him with details concerning that individual. So I kept Brignolles to myself. Assuming a nonchalant air, I joined Rouletabille in the courtyard of Charles the Bold. He was busy placing iron bars across the circular board covering the well, and he pointed out to me that even if the well did communicate with the sea, no one could gain entrance to the castle that way without lifting the heavy cover, which was impossible.

  He was perspiring heavily and, collarless and bare-armed, was pounding away with a huge hammer. I thought he was making a lot of fuss about a very simple matter, and, idiot that I was, I told him so. Why didn’t I realise that he was deliberately exhausting himself, that he was indulging in such violent physical activity as a way of driving out the torment in his soul? No, I didn’t have the sense to see that, and it was only half an hour later that it fully dawned upon me, when I found him stretched out upon the stones of the ruined chapel, sound asleep, and heard him murmur, in the midst of his troubled dreams, the one word: ‘Mother!’

  Rouletabille was dreaming of the Lady in Black. Perhaps he was dreaming that he was hugging her, as he used to when he was a little boy at the school at Eu and rushed into the parlour to
be embraced by her. I watched him for a while, wondering if, in his sleep, he might not let his secret be overheard by someone else. But he said nothing more, and the only sound which came from his lips was a sonorous rumble. Rouletabille snored like a top. I believe he was sleeping properly for the first time since he had left Paris.

  I took advantage of Rouletabille’s slumbers to escape from the castle without being seen and catch the train to Nice. On picking up a local paper, the first thing that caught my eye was this notice:

  ‘Professor Stangerson has arrived at Garavan with the intention of spending several weeks with Mr Arthur Rance, who has bought the Chateau d’Hercule, where, assisted by the charming Mrs Rance, he will be entertaining friends amidst the most picturesque medieval surroundings. We have just learned that the Professor’s daughter, whose marriage to M. Robert Darzac recently took place in Paris, has also arrived at the castle, accompanied by her husband, the celebrated Sorbonne Professor. These new guests arrive in our midst from the North just as most of our visitors are taking their leave of us. They are quite right to choose this season for their visit, as there is no more beautiful place to enjoy the Spring than on the Riviera.’

  At Nice, sitting at the window of the station restaurant, I watched the arrival of the train from Paris, which was likely to have Brignolles among its passengers. Sure enough, there he was! My heart beat violently, for this journey, which Brignolles had not seen fit to announce to M. Darzac, struck me as decidedly odd. Besides, I wasn’t blind, I could see that Brignolles was hiding. He bent his head and slipped away like a thief towards the exit. But I was behind him. He jumped into a cab. I took another. At the Place Masséna, he got out of that cab, crossed towards the pier and took another. I followed closely, for his behaviour seemed very odd indeed.