The Perfume of the Lady in Black Read online

  He had seen views of that part of the country in his Geography lessons, and had often sighed because he feared he would never see that enchanted place. By dint of living like a gipsy, he had managed to join a little band of gipsies who were on their way to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer to elect their king. He was able to be of some service to the gipsies, they took a shine to him, and, since such people are not in the habit of insisting upon any official form of identification, he got along very well with them. They assumed that the youngster belonged to some travelling show, and had run away because he was badly treated, and so they kept him. Thus he made his way to the south. Near Arles he parted company with them and, eventually, reached Marseilles.

  There it was paradise, eternal summer, and the port was an endless source of revenue to the little ragamuffins of the town. For Rouletabille it proved a fund of treasure, into which he delved at his ease. One of the things he did was to become an ‘orange-fisher’. It was one morning, while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he made the acquaintance of a Parisian journalist, M. Gaston Leroux. This meeting was destined to have so great an influence on the life of Rouletabille that I do not consider it superfluous to quote here the article that Le Matin’s reporter wrote about it:

  The little orange-fisher

  As the sun, finally piercing the cloudy sky, cast its slanting rays upon the golden dome of Notre Dame de la Garde, I sauntered on to the quay. The great flagstones were still wet, and I could see my own reflection in them. A crowd of sailors and dockers was busy unloading the lumber that had arrived from the forests of the North. The keen wind blowing in from the sea whistled between the Tour Saint-Jean and Fort Saint Nicholas, and ruffled the waters of the old port. Side by side, the little boats danced merrily, stretching out their yardarms to each other. Beside them, the larger vessels, weary after endless days and nights of being pitched about upon distant seas, rested heavily upon their keels, thrusting their now rigid masts towards the sky. Gazing through the aerial forests of topmasts and rigging, my eyes rested upon the tower, which attests to the fact that twenty-five centuries ago, the Phœnicians dropped anchor on this happy shore.

  Then, looking down again at the flagstones of the quay, I saw the little orange-fisher.

  He had blond hair and brown eyes and he was wearing a ragged coat that dragged about his heels; his head and feet were bare. He must have been about nine years old. A coarse sack, fastened by a string slung over his shoulder, hung at his side. He stood with one hand on his hip, and with his other hand he held a long pole nearly three times his own height which was capped with a piece of cork. The child was so still and attentive that I asked him what he was doing there. He replied that he was fishing for oranges.

  He seemed very proud of being an orange-fisher, and did not ask me for pennies, as did most of the little vagabonds in the port. I spoke to him again, but this time he did not answer, for he was staring eagerly at the water. We were standing between the delicately designed hull of the Fides and a schooner just in from Genoa. Further on, we could see a couple of sailing vessels, their sides bulging with oranges. I knew they were laden with oranges because they spilled over on every side. The fruit floated on the water and was pushed toward us by the gentle rolling of the tide. My fisherman jumped into a dinghy, scampered into the bow and, pole in hand, waited intently. Then he fished. With the cork on his pole he drew towards him one, two, three, four oranges. They disappeared into his bag. He rescued a fifth, clambered on to the quay, and opened the golden fruit. He thrust his small mouth into the opening he had made and began to devour his prize.

  ‘Bon appetit,’ I said.

  ‘Sir,’ he replied, his face all smothered with juice, ‘fruit is the only food I care to eat.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ I said, ‘but what happens when there are no more oranges?’

  ‘Then I go coaling.’ And he thrust his tiny fist into the bag and produced a chunk of coal. The juice from the orange had dripped on his ragged coat, but from one of his pockets he drew an indescribably grubby handkerchief and very carefully wiped away the spots. Then, with much pride, he returned the handkerchief to his pocket.

  ‘What does your father do?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s poor.’

  ‘Yes, but what does he do?’

  The orange-fisher shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Since he’s poor, he doesn’t do anything.’

  My questions concerning his father seemed to displease him.

  He hurried away along the quay, and I followed him. We arrived at last at the little breakwater behind which the pleasure boats are moored – minature yachts built of fine wood and handsomely polished. The boy looked at them with the eye of a connoisseur and seemed to enjoy the inspection. A pretty little craft, its sails spread, hove to. The canvas, immaculately white, formed a glittering triangle in the brilliant sunlight.

  ‘What fine linen!’ exclaimed the little man.

  And immediately afterwards, he stepped in a puddle, and his coat, which was evidently his main preoccupation, was badly spattered. ‘Oh no!’ he cried, and, snatching the handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped and wiped, and then, looking at me with beseeching eyes, asked:

  ‘Please, sir, am I dirty at the back?’

  I gave him my word of honour that he was not, and, satisfied with my reply, he put the handkerchief back in his pocket.

  A little further along the pavement that runs beside the old red, yellow or blue houses, were rows of little tables, upon which the sellers of clams displayed their wares. On the tables were heaps of clams, old rusty knives and bottles of vinegar. We walked past the stalls, and the clams looked so fresh and tempting that I said to the little orange-fisher: ‘If it weren’t for the fact that you only like fruit, I would offer you a dozen clams.’

  His eyes sparkled with delight, and we set to work, both of us, eating clams. We swallowed them as fast as the vendor could open them. She made to offer us some vinegar, but my companion stopped her with an imperious gesture. He opened his sack, felt around, and triumphantly produced a lemon. It had been in close contact with the coal and was quite black, but its owner took out his handkerchief and wiped it carefully. Then he split the fruit in half with a knife, and offered me a piece. I prefer my clams without seasoning, however, so I declined.

  After lunch, we returned to the quay. The orange-fisher asked me for a cigarette, which he lit with a match that he had in another pocket in his coat. Then, with his cigarette between his teeth, puffing smoke through his lips like a grown man, he sat down upon the edge of the quay and stared up at Notre Dame de la Garde.

  Gaston Leroux

  A couple of days later, Joseph Josephin met Gaston Leroux again. He was coming towards him with a newspaper in his hand. The boy read the article and the journalist gave him a bright five-franc piece.

  Rouletabille had no qualms about accepting; he seemed to think the gift quite natural. ‘I accept your money,’ he said, ‘as your associate.’

  With his five francs he bought a boot-blacking kit and took up his stand in front of Bregaillon’s. For years he polished the boots of everyone who came to that famous restaurant to taste its traditional bouillabaisse. Between cigarettes, he squatted on his box and read. Along with the sense of ownership that had come to him with the possession of his blacking-box was born an ambition. He had received too good a primary education not to realise that, if he did not finish for himself what others had begun for him, he would lose the best chance he had of making a place for himself in the world.

  His customers took a great interest in the little bootblack, who always had some book dealing with history or mathematics tucked under his arm, and, eventually, a manufacturer of firearms took a fancy to him and gave him a job as an office boy in his factory. It was not long before Rouletabille was promoted to the dignified post of clerk and was able to save some money. When he was fifteen, he set off for Paris with his savings. Why? To find the Lady in Black!

  Not for a single day had he cea
sed to think of the mysterious visitor to the school parlour, and though she had not told him she lived in Paris, he was persuaded that no other city in the world was worthy of being home to a lady who wore such a charming perfume. Moreover, the schoolboys, when they had caught a glimpse of her stylish silhouette as she made her way towards the parlour, used to say: ‘The parisienne was here today.’

  It would have been difficult to say precisely what Rouletabille planned to do, and perhaps he could not have explained it himself. Was his wish merely to see the Lady in Black and to watch her pass by, as one who gazes from a distance on a holy image carried in a procession? Would he dare to approach her? Had not the terrible story of the theft – which, in Rouletabille’s imagination, had grown more terrible with the passing of time – created a barrier between them which he would never dare to surmount? Possibly, but he wanted to see her. Of that he was certain.

  As soon as he arrived in the capital, he immediately sought out M. Gaston Leroux and reminded him who he was. Having done so, he declared that, not being inclined to take up any special trade or profession – which was unfortunate for such a diligent nature – he had decided to devote himself to journalism, and he asked the journalist to take him on as a reporter. Gaston Leroux did his best to dissuade the young man from entering upon a journalistic career, but in vain. Finally, after much fruitless argument, he said:

  ‘Well, my boy, as you haven’t anything better to do, see if you can find the missing left foot from the murder committed in Rue Oberkampf.’

  Thereupon he bade Rouletabille good day, leaving the latter puzzled as to whether the journalist was merely poking fun at him. However, having bought the paper, he learned that L’Epoque was offering a substantial reward to whomever could bring to its offices the missing foot of the woman whose body had been cut into pieces in Rue Oberkampf. What happened next we already know.

  In The Mystery of the Yellow Room, I described how Rouletabille’s talent manifested itself and how, at the same time, his strange profession was revealed to him in his ability to start reasoning where others left off.

  I have told how chance led him one night to the Élysée Palace, and how there he breathed in the passing perfume of the Lady in Black. He became aware that he was following Mlle Stangerson. What more can I say? Need I speak of the emotions that overwhelmed Rouletabille with regard to this perfume during the events which took place at Glandier, and later, after his trip to America? They can easily be guessed at. Who could not now understand his strange behaviour, his sudden changes of mood? The information he had brought back from Cincinnati concerning the child of the woman who had been the wife of Jean Roussel was explicit enough to lead him to believe that he was that child, but not sufficient to make him certain of the fact. However, his instinct drew him so surely towards the Professor’s daughter that it was all he could do not to throw his arms about her and cry out: ‘You are my mother, my mother!’ And he knew it was true when he fled from the church in order not to let his secret escape him in a second moment of weakness – the secret that had tortured him for years.

  Besides, truth to tell, he was afraid. Suppose she should cast him from her? Deny him? Turn from him in horror? He, the little thief from the school at Eu! He, the son of Roussel-Ballmeyer, heir to all of Larsan’s crimes! Suppose he should never see her again, never be able once more to live by her side, no longer breathe her dear perfume, the perfume of the Lady in Black? Oh, how this terrifying vision had compelled him, each time he saw her, to battle against the impulse to ask her: ‘Are you the Lady in Black?’ As for her, she had loved him at once, no doubt because of the way he had acted at Glandier. If it really was her, did she believe him to be dead? And yet again, suppose she was not the Lady in Black and Fate had played some trick on him that upset his instinct and his powers of reasoning? Could he, through some imprudent remark, allow her to suspect that he had fled from school at Eu because of the theft? No, no, never!

  She had often asked him: ‘Where were you brought up, my little friend? Where did you first go to school?’

  He had answered: ‘In Bordeaux.’ He might as well have said Peking.

  But this torment could not last. If it was her, he would know how to say things which would touch her heart.

  Anything was better than not to be held in her arms, at least so he told himself sometimes. But he must be sure – surer than reason itself— that she was indeed the Lady in Black. He must be as certain of her identity as a dog is of its master’s. This turn of thought led him naturally to the idea of following up the scent, which is why he went to Tréport and to Eu. I should say, however, that this expedition would not have brought us to any definite conclusion, that is, would not have convinced a third party like myself, who was not influenced by the perfume, if Mathilde’s letter, which I had handed to Rouletabille in the train, had not given him the assurance we sought.

  I have not read that letter. In the eyes of my young friend it is a sacred document that others will never look upon. But I know that the reproaches she made him concerning his shyness and lack of trust were of such a pitiful nature that Rouletabille could not have been mistaken. Professor Stangerson’s daughter had ended her letter, as if with a sob in which she revealed her maternal anguish. She had said that the interest she bore him was due less to the services he had rendered her than to the memory she had of a little boy, the son of one of her friends, whom she had dearly loved, and who had committed suicide, like a little man, at nine years of age. Rouletabille was so much like him!

  CHAPTER V

  Panic

  Dijon – Mâcon – Lyon! There can be no doubt about it, he is definitely not asleep. I have called to him softly, and he has not answered me, but I would stake my life on it that he is not sleeping. What is he thinking about? How calm he is! What can have made him so calm? I can still see him as he was in the school parlour, standing up suddenly and saying in a voice full of earnest resolution: ‘Let us go!’ Go to whom? Where had he resolved to go? To her, evidently, who was in danger and could only be saved by him, to her who was his mother and must never know it.

  ‘It is a secret which must go no further than ourselves. The child is dead to all, except to you and me!’

  That was his resolution, this sudden decision not to tell her. And he had come there only in search of proofs that would allow him to speak to her. The very instant that the truth became undeniably clear to him, he tried to forget it and condemned himself to silence.

  Poor heroic soul! He realised that the Lady in Black, who stood so much in need of his help, would not accept her safety at the price of a struggle between father and son. How far could this struggle go? To what extremes might it not lead? Nothing must be overlooked, and Rouletabille’s hands must be free to defend the Lady in Black.

  Rouletabille is so still that I cannot even hear him breathing. I lean over him and find his eyes wide open.

  ‘Do you know what I’m thinking about?’ he says. ‘About the message from Bourg signed by Darzac and about the other from Valence signed by Stangerson.’

  ‘I had the same thought and it struck me as rather strange. At Bourg, M. and Madame Darzac are no longer with M. Stangerson, who parted from them at Dijon. Besides, the message says plainly enough: “We are going to join M. Stangerson.” Now, the Stangerson message proves that he, continuing directly on his way to Marseilles, is once more with the Darzacs. That would mean that the Darzacs had again joined M. Stangerson on the way to Marseilles, but in order to do that, the Professor would have had to stop somewhere.

  Why should he? He had not foreseen any stop. At the station he said: “I shall be in Menton tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.” See what time the message was sent from Valence, and let us look at the timetable, and find out at what hour he should, under normal conditions, pass through Valence, unless, that is, he stopped on the way.’

  We consulted the timetable. M. Stangerson should have passed through Valence at forty-four minutes past midnight, and the message was stam
ped 12.47. It had evidently been sent from Valence on M. Stangerson’s orders in the ordinary course of his journey. It was at that time, then, that he must have been joined by M. and Madame Darzac. Still using the timetable as guide, we managed to solve the mystery of this meeting.

  Professor Stangerson had parted from the Darzacs at Dijon, where they had all arrived at 6.27 p.m. The Professor had then taken the train that left Dijon at 7.08 and arrived at Lyon at 10.04 and at Valence at 12.47. During that time, the Darzacs, leaving Dijon at seven o’clock, went on via Modane and St Amour, and arrived at Bourg at 9.03. a.m. Darzac’s message had been sent from Bourg, and bore the telegraph office stamp ‘9.28’. The Darzacs had, therefore, stayed over at Bourg. There was also the possibility that the train had been delayed.

  In any case, we had to find out the reason for M. Darzac’s message between Dijon and Bourg after M. Stangerson had already set out. It was even possible to place it definitely between Louhans and Bourg. The train stops at Louhans, and if the tragedy had occurred before Louhans, where they had arrived at eight o’clock, was it likely that M. Darzac would have telegraphed from there?

  By looking up the Bourg-Lyon timetable we learned that M. Darzac had sent off his wire from Bourg one minute before the departure of the 9.29 train for Lyon. Now, this train arrives at Lyon at 10.33, while that on which M. Stangerson was travelling was due in at 10.34. After the detour via Bourg and their stop there, M. and Madame Darzac could, indeed, must have, joined M. Stangerson at Lyon, where they arrived one minute before he did.

  What tragic incident had caused them to change their route? We could only indulge in the saddest conjectures, all founded, alas, upon the reppearance of Larsan. It was clear to us that each of our friends was determined not to alarm anyone else. M. Darzac on the one hand and Madame Darzac on the other had done everything to conceal the gravity of the situation. As for M. Stangerson, we wondered if he was aware of what had happened.