Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 43

  “Sainclair, you are too curious — you are more curious than I. I asked her nothing.”

  “And you swore to see nothing and to hear nothing without her saying anything to you about the pistol shot and the cry?”

  “Truly, Sainclair, it was necessary for me to believe — for my part. I respected the secrets of the Lady in Black. I had nothing to ask of her when she said to me, ‘We must leave each other now, my child, but nothing can ever separate us again!’”

  “Ah, she said that to you— ‘Nothing can ever separate us again’?”

  “Yes, my friend — and there was blood upon her hands.”

  We looked at each other in silence. I was now at the window and beside the reporter. Suddenly his hand touched mine. Then he pointed to the little taper which was burning at the entrance to the subterranean door which led to Old Bob’s study in the Tower of the Bold.

  “It is dawn,” said Rouletabille. “And Old Bob is still at work. This old fellow is certainly industrious and we will go and have a peep at him at his labors. That will change our current of thought and I shall be able to get away from these horrors that are smothering me and driving me half wild.”

  And he heaved a long sigh.

  “Will Darzac never return!” he murmured, more as though he were speaking to himself than to me.

  A few moments later we had crossed the court and had descended into the octagon room of the Tower of Charles the Bold. It was empty. The lamp was burning on the work table, but there was no sign of Old Bob.

  “Oh!” cried Rouletabille. He picked up the lamp and carried it from place to place examining everything around him. He tried in turn the lock of every little window which opened from the walls of the basement. Nothing had changed its place, and all was arranged in order and scientific etiquette. While we were looking around at the bones and shells and horns of the prehistoric ages, the “hanging crystals,” the rings made out of bone, the buckles formed from teeth, and the other treasures of the savant, we came to the little desk-table. There we found the “oldest skull in the history of humanity”; and it was true that it had been spattered with the red paint of the wash drawing which M. Darzac had set to dry upon that part of the desk which faced the window and was exposed to the sun. I went from one window to the other and shook the iron bars in order to assure myself that they had not been touched nor tampered with in any way. Rouletabille saw what I was doing and said:

  “What are you about? Before thinking about how he could have gotten out at the windows, wouldn’t it be better to find out whether he went by the door?”

  He set the lamp upon the parapet and looked for traces of footprints. Then Rouletabille said:

  “Go and knock at the door of the Square Tower and ask Bernier whether Old Bob has come in. Ask Mattoni at the postern and Pere Jacques at the iron gate. Go, Sainclair — quick!”

  Five minutes after I went out I was back with the information. No one had seen Old Bob in any part of the fortress. He had not passed by anywhere. Rouletabille had his face close to the parapet. He said:

  “He left this lamp burning in order to make people believe that he was at work.” And then he added, softly: “There is no sign of a struggle of any sort and in the sand I find the traces of the footprints of only M. Arthur Rance and M. Robert Darzac, who came to this room during the storm last night and have brought on their feet a little earth from the court of the Bold and also of the claylike soil of the outer court. There is no footprint which could be Old Bob’s. Old Bob reached here before and, perhaps, went out while the tempest was raging, but, in any case, he has not come in since.” Rouletabille stood erect. He replaced upon the desk the lamp the rays of which fell directly upon the skull which had been splashed by the red paint in a frightful fashion. Around us there were dozens of skeletons but certainly their presence was less alarming to me than the absence of Old Bob.

  Rouletabille stood for a moment staring at the crimson skull, then he took it in his hands and held his eyes close to its empty orbits. Then he raised the skull higher and held it at arms’ length, gazing at it with an almost breathless interest; he looked at the profile. Then he placed the hideous object in my hands and told me to raise it to the level of my head, as carefully as thought it were the most precious of burdens while Rouletabille brought the lamp very close to it.

  Like a flash an idea pierced through my brain. I let the skull fall on the desk and rushed through the court till I came to the oubliette. I discovered that the iron bars which closed it were still fast. If anyone had fled by that way or had fallen into the shaft or had thrown himself down, the bars would have been opened. I hurried back, more anxious than ever.

  “Rouletabille! Rouletabille! There is no way that Old Bob could have gotten out except in the sack!”

  I repeated the sentence, but my friend was not listening and I was surprised to see him deeply engrossed in a task of which I found it impossible to guess the meaning. How, at a time as tragic as the present, while we were awaiting only the return of M. Darzac to complete the circle in which the impossible body was found — while in the Square Tower, the Lady in Black, like Lady MacBeth, must be occupied in effacing from her hands the stains of the strangest of crimes, Rouletabille seemed to be amusing himself by making drawings with a foot rule, a square, a measure and a compass. There he was, seated in the old geologist’s easy chair with Robert Darzac’s drawing board before him and he also was making a plan — quiet and imperturbable as an architect’s clerk.

  He had pricked the paper with one of the points of his compass while the other point traced the circle which might represent the Tower of the Bold as we could see it in the design of M. Darzac. Then, dipping his brush into a tiny dish half full of the red paint which M. Darzac had been using he carefully spread the paint over the entire space occupied by the circle. In doing this, he was extremely particular, giving the greatest attention to seeing that the paint was of the same thickness at every point, just as a student might have done in preparing a lesson. He bent his head first to the right and then to the left as though to see the effect, moistening his lips with his tongue as though he were meditating earnestly. In a moment he gave a little start and then sat motionless. His eyes were fixed on the drawing as though they had been glued to it. They did not even move in their sockets. The stillness was horrible, but it was not much better when his lips opened to utter an exclamation of breathless horror. His face looked like that of a maniac. And he turned toward me so quickly that he upset the great easy chair in which he had been seated.

  “Sainclair! Sainclair! Look at the red paint! Look at the red paint!”

  I leaned over the drawing, breathless, terrified by the savage exultation of his tone. But I could only see a little drawing carefully done.

  “The red paint! the red paint!” he kept groaning, his eyes staring in his head as though he were witnessing some frightful spectacle.

  “But what — what is it?” I stammered.

  “What is it? My God, man, can’t you see? Don’t you know that that is blood?”

  No, I did not know it — indeed, I was quite sure that it wasn’t blood. It was merely red paint. But I took care not to contradict Rouletabille. I feigned to be interested in this idea of blood.

  “Whose blood?” I inquired. “Do you think that it can be Larsan’s?”

  “Oh! oh! oh! Larsan’s blood? Who knows anything about Larsan’s blood? Who has ever seen the color of it? To see that, it would be necessary to open my own veins, Sainclair. That’s the only way!”

  I was completely overwhelmed and astonished.

  “My father would not let his blood be spilled like that!”

  He was speaking again with that strange, desperate pride of his father.

  “When my father wears a wig, it will fit! My father would not let his blood be spilled like that!”

  “Bernier’s hands were covered with it and you yourself saw it upon the hand of the Lady in Black.”

  “Yes, yes! That is true — t
hat is true! But they could never kill my father like that!”

  He seemed to grow more excited every moment and he never ceased gazing on the little wash drawing. At last he spoke, his breast shaken with a great sob.

  “O, God! O God! O God, have pity on us! That would be too frightful!”

  He ceased for a moment and then spoke again:

  “My poor mother did not deserve this! I did not deserve it — nor any one in the world!” A tear ran down his cheek and fell into the little dish of paint.

  “Ah!” he cried. “It isn’t necessary to fill it any fuller.” And he picked up the tiny cup with infinite care and carried it to the cabinet.

  Then he took me by the hand and bade me look at him carefully — carefully — and tell him whether he had not really gone suddenly insane.

  “Let us go! let us go!” he said, drearily, at last. “The time is come, Sainclair. No matter what happens, we can never turn back now! The Lady in Black must tell us everything — everything about the man who is in that sack! Ah, if M. Darzac were to return immediately — immediately! — it might be less painful — but I dare wait no longer!”

  Wait for what? Wait for whom? And why should he be so terrified now? What fear had made his eyes so wild? Why did his teeth chatter?

  I could not restrain myself from asking him again:

  “What are you afraid of? Do you think that Larsan is not dead?”

  And he answered, gripping my hand as though he would never release it:

  “I tell you I fear his death more than I fear his life!”

  And he knocked at the door of the Square Tower before which we were standing as he spoke. I asked him whether he did not wish me to leave him alone with his mother. But, to my great surprise, he begged me not to abandon him “for anything in the world — so that the circle should not be closed.” And he added mournfully. “Perhaps it may never be!”

  The door of the Tower remained closed. He knocked again; then it was opened and we saw Bernier’s face appear. He seemed embarrassed at the sight of us.

  “What do you want? What are you doing here again?” he demanded. “Speak low. Madame is in Old Bob’s sitting room. And the old man has not come in yet.”

  “Let us enter, Bernier!” said Rouletabille. And he pushed the door further open.

  “But whatever you do, don’t let Madame suspect—”

  “No, no!” replied Rouletabille, impatiently.

  We were in the vestibule of the Tower. The darkness was almost impenetrable.

  “What is Madame doing in Old Bob’s sitting room?” asked the reporter in a low voice.

  “She is waiting — waiting for the return of M. Darzac. She dare not reënter the room until he comes — nor I, either!”

  “Well, go back into your lodge, Bernier!” ordered Rouletabille. “And wait until I call you.”

  The young reporter opened the door of Old Bob’s salon, and we saw the form of the Lady in Black, or, rather, her shadow, for the apartment was very dark and the first faint rays of the sun had scarcely penetrated it. The tall, sombre silhouette of Mathilde was standing but it leaned against the corner of the window which looked out upon the court of Charles the Bold. She never moved at our entrance, but her lips opened and a voice that I should never have recognized as hers, murmured:

  “Why are you come? I saw you crossing the court. You have been there all night. You know all. What do you want now?”

  And she added in a tone of unutterable misery:

  “You swore to me that you would seek to know nothing.”

  Rouletabille went to her side and took her hand reverently.

  “Come, Mother, dearest!” he said and the simple words upon his lips sounded like a prayer, tender and imploring. “Come — come!”

  And he drew her away. She did not resist in the least. It was as though as soon as he touched her hand, he could bend her to his will. But when he led her to the door of the fatal chamber, her whole frame seemed to recoil. “Not there!” she moaned.

  And she reeled against the wall to keep herself from falling. Rouletabille tried the door. It was locked. He called Bernier, who opened the door and then hurried away as though he were bent on escaping from some deadly peril.

  Once the door was opened, we looked into the room. What a spectacle we beheld! The chamber was in the most frightful disorder. And the crimson dawn which entered through the vast embrasures rendered the disorder still more sinister. What an illumination for a chamber of horrors! Blood was upon the walls and upon the floor and upon the furniture! The blood of the rising sun and the blood of him whom Toby had carried off in the sack, no one knew whither! — in the potato bag! The tables, the chairs, the sofas were all overturned. The curtains of the bed to which the man in his death agony had tried desperately to cling were half torn down and one could distinguish upon one of them the mark of a bloody hand.

  It was into this scene that we entered, supporting the Lady in Black, who seemed ready to swoon, while Rouletabille kept murmuring to her in his gentle and pleading tones: “It has to be done, Mother! It has to be done!” And as soon as he had placed her upon a couch which I had turned right side up, he began to question her. She answered in monosyllables, by signs of the head or movements of the hands. And I saw that the further the examination progressed, the more troubled and restless Rouletabille became. He was visibly affected. He endeavored to regain his composure and to help his mother maintain hers but it was difficult for him to succeed in either effort. He spoke to the unhappy woman as though he were still her little child. He called her “mamma” and tried in every way to show his reverence and love for her. But she had utterly lost courage. He held out his arms and she threw herself into them; the son and mother embraced and that seemed to give her a little more strength and she burst into a fit of weeping which seemed to relieve a little the terrible weight upon her breast. I made a movement as if to retire, but both sought to detain me and I saw that they did not wish to be left alone in this room red with blood.

  Mme. Darzac, after her sobs had ceased, murmured:

  “We are delivered!”

  Rouletabille had fallen upon his knees at her side and, as she uttered the words, he said entreatingly:

  “Mother, dearest, in order that we may be sure of that — quite sure — you must tell me all that happened — everything that you saw.”

  Then she told us the story. She looked at the closed door; she looked with what seemed to be new horror at the overturned furniture and the blood-spattered walls and floor and she narrated the details of the frightful scene through which she had passed in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible, and I was obliged to bring my ear close to her to hear at all. In short, halting phrases, she told us that as soon as M. Darzac had entered his room, he had drawn the bolt and had walked straight to the little table which was placed in the center of the room. The Lady in Black was standing a little nearer the left, ready to pass into her own sleeping room. The apartment was lighted only by a wax candle placed on the night commode, at the left, near Mathilde’s door. And this is what happened:

  The silence of the room was suddenly broken by a loud crash, like that of a piece of furniture falling to the ground, which made both M. and Mme. Darzac quickly raise their heads while their hearts were struck at the same moment by the same thrill of terror. The crash came from the little panel. And then all was silent. The pair looked at each other without daring to utter a word, perhaps without being able to do so. Darzac made a movement toward the panel which was situated at the back of the room on the right hand side. He was nailed to the spot where he stood by a second crash, louder than the first, and this time it seemed to Mathilde that she could see the panel move. The Lady in Black asked herself whether she were the victim of a hallucination, or if she had really seen the panel move. But Darzac had seen the same thing, for he made a hasty step in that direction. But at that very moment, the panel swung open before them. Pushed by an invisible hand it turned on its hinges. The Lady in Black
tried to cry out, but her tongue clove to the roots of her mouth. But she made a gesture of terror and bewilderment which threw the wax candle to the ground at the very moment when a shadowy form issued from the panel. Uttering a cry of rage, Robert Darzac rushed upon the figure.

  “And that shadow — that shadow had a face that you could see?” interrupted Rouletabille. “Mamma, why did you not see the face? You have killed the shadow, but how do we know that it was Larsan, if you did not see his face? Perhaps you have not even killed Larsan’s shadow.”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied, almost listlessly. “He is dead.” And then for a moment, she said no more.

  And I looked at Rouletabille, asking myself: Who could have been killed if it were not Larsan? If Mathilde had not seen his face, she had certainly heard his voice. She shuddered yet at the recollection — she heard it yet. And Bernier, too, had heard the voice and recognized it — that terrible voice of Larsan’s — the voice of Ballmeyer, who in that fearful conflict in the middle of the night, had promised death to Robert Darzac. “This blow will end your life!” while Darzac could only groan in the tones of a dying man, “Mathilde! Mathilde!” Ah, how he had cried to her! — how he had called with the rattle in his throat, as he lay already vanquished and in the shadow of death! And she — she had only to throw her own shadow, swooning with terror, into the midst of those two other shadows, while the man she loved called upon her for the aid she could not give and which could not come from elsewhere. And then, suddenly, there had come the pistol shot and she had uttered that terrible shriek — as though she had been wounded, herself. “Who was dead? Who was living? Who was speaking? Whose voice would she hear?”

  And then it was Robert who spoke.

  Rouletabille took the Lady in Black into his arms once more, lifted her up and carried her tenderly to the door of her own room. And there, he said to her: “Mamma, you must leave me now. I have work to do — for you, for M. Darzac and for myself.”

  “Don’t leave me! I beg of you not to leave me until Robert comes back!” she cried in terror. Rouletabille begged her to try and take some rest and promised to remain near her if she would close her door, when someone knocked at the door of the corridor. Rouletabille asked who was there and the voice of Darzac answered.