Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 47

  As senseless as was the idea of this substitution, it was, nevertheless, in a certain degree, pardonable. Rouletabille was a little to blame for it by his fashion of talking of Larsan as a very god of metamorphosis. And after casting it aside, I returned to the sole possible idea under which Larsan could have taken the place of Darzac — the idea of a substitution before the marriage ceremony at the time when Mlle. Stangerson’s fiancé returned to Paris after three months absence in the Midi.

  The despairing plaint which Robert Darzac, believing himself alone, had allowed to escape his lips only a little while before, in my hearing, could not entirely banish this supposition from my head. I saw him again entering the church of St. Nicolas du Chardonnet, in which parish he had requested that the wedding should take place — perhaps, thought I, because there is no darker nor more gloomy church in all Paris.

  Ah, one’s fancy plays strange tricks on a moonlight night, when one is lurking behind a barberry hedge, with a mind and brain filled with Larsan!

  “I am a veritable imbecile!” I told myself, beginning to wish that I were in the quiet little room in the New Castle, where my undisturbed bed awaited me. “For if Larsan had been masquerading as Darzac, he would have been satisfied with carrying off Mathilde and he would not have reappeared in his own likeness to frighten her and he would not have brought her to the Château of Hercules and he would not have committed the foolhardy act of showing himself again in the bark of Tullio. For at that moment, Mathilde belonged to him and it was from that moment that she had cast him off. The reappearance of Larsan had divided the Lady in Black from Darzac, and, therefore, Darzac could not be Larsan.”

  Dear Heaven, how my head ached! It was the moonlight above which must have turned my brain — I was moonstruck.

  And then, too, had not he appeared to Arthur Rance himself in the gardens at Mentone after he had accompanied Darzac to the train which had taken him to Cannes, where he met us. If Arthur Rance had spoken the truth, I might go to my couch in tranquility. And why should he have lied? — Arthur Rance who had been in love with the Lady in Black and who had not ceased to love her. Mme. Edith was not a fool — she knew that Mme. Darzac still held the heart of the young American. Well, it was time for me to go to bed!

  I was still beneath the arch of the gardener’s postern and I was just about to enter the Court of the Bold when it seemed to me that I heard something moving — it sounded as though a door might have been closed. Then there was a sound as of wood striking on iron. I thrust my head out from under the arch and I believed that I could see the shadow of a person near the door of the New Castle — a shadow which somehow seemed to mingle with that of the castle itself. I snatched my revolver from my pocket and with three steps was at the place where I believed I had seen the shape. But it was there no longer. I could see nothing but darkness. The door of the castle was closed and I was certain that I had left it open. I was disturbed and anxious. I felt that I was not alone — who, then, could be near me? Evidently if that shadow had existed elsewhere than in my imagination, it could have vanished only within the New Castle or must still be in the court.

  And the court was deserted.

  I listened attentively for more than five minutes without making the slightest sound. Nothing! I must have been mistaken. But, nevertheless, I did not even strike a match, and as silently as I could, I ascended the staircase which led to my chamber. When I reached it, I locked myself in and only then began to breathe freely.

  This vision or whatever it had been continued to disturb me more than I was willing to confess to myself, and even after I had gotten into bed I could not sleep. Without my being able to account for it at all this vision and the thought of Darzac-Larsan began to mingle strangely in my restless spirit.

  The effect on my mind was so strong that, at last, I said to myself: “I shall never know peace again until I am certain that M. Darzac is not Larsan. And I shall take means to make myself certain, one way or the other, on the first occasion.”

  Yes, but how? Pull his beard off? If my suspicion was baseless, he would take me for a madman, or else he would guess what I was thinking of and such a knowledge would add yet another to the load of misfortunes, already too heavy for him to bear. Only this misery was lacking to him still — to know that he was suspected of being Larsan.

  Suddenly I threw off the bedclothes, jumped up and cried almost aloud:

  “Australia!”

  An episode had returned to my mind of which I have spoken at the beginning of this story. The reader may remember that, at the time of the accident in the laboratory, I had accompanied M. Robert Darzac to a druggist. While his injuries were being attended to, he had been obliged to remove his study coat, and the sleeve of his shirt had fallen back, leaving his arm bare through the entire session with the druggist, and placing in full view just above the right elbow, a large birth mark, the shape of which resembled that of Australia as it appears on the maps in the geographies. Mentally, while the chemist was at work, I had amused myself by trying to locate upon the arm in the positions which they occupied on an actual map, the cities of Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide, etc.; and directly beneath this large mark, there was another smaller one which was situated like the country known as Tasmania.

  And when, by any chance, the thought of that accident had happened to recur to my mind, I had always thought of the half hour at the chemist’s and the birthmark shaped like the outlines of Australia.

  And in this sleepless night, it was the thought of Australia that came to me.

  Seated on the edge of my bed, I had scarcely had time to congratulate myself upon having found a means to prove decisively the identity of Robert Darzac and to try to devise some way of bringing it to an immediate test, when a singular sound made me prick up my ears. The sound was repeated — one would have said that gravel was cracking beneath slow and cautious footsteps.

  Breathless, I hurried to my door and, with my ear at the keyhole, I listened. Silence for a moment and then once more the same sound — footsteps, beyond a doubt. Someone was now ascending the staircase — and someone who desired his presence to be unknown. I thought of the shadow which I had believed I saw as I was entering the Court of the Bold — whose could this shadow be and what was it doing on the staircase? Was it coming up or going down?

  Silence again! I profited by it to hastily don my trousers and, armed with my revolver, I succeeded in opening my door without letting it creak on its hinges. Holding my breath, I advanced to the head of the stairs and waited. I have told of the state of dilapidation of the New Castle. The pale rays of the moonlight entered obliquely through the high windows which opened at each landing, cutting with exact squares of soft light the black darkness of the stairway which was very wide and high. The ruined condition of the château, thus lighted up in spots, only appeared more complete. The broken balustrade and railings of the staircase, the walls overrun with lizards over which here and there hung floating rags of once priceless tapestry — all these things which I had scarcely noticed in the daylight, struck me strangely in this lonely night and my whirling brain felt quite prepared to find in this gloomy scene the fit setting for the appearance of a phantom. Indeed and in truth, I was afraid. The shadow which I had seen a little while ago had practically slipped between my fingers — for I had been near enough to have touched it. But, surely a phantom might walk in an empty house without making any sound. Though the footsteps were silent now!

  All at once, as I was leaning on the broken balustrade, I saw the shadow again — it was lighted up by the moonbeams as though it were a flambeau. And I recognized Robert Darzac.

  He had reached the ground floor, and, crossing the vestibule, raised his head and looked in my direction as though he felt the weight of my eyes upon him. Instinctively, I drew back. And then I returned to my post of observation just in time to see him disappear into a corridor which led to another staircase winding up to the battlements. What could this mean? Was Robert Darzac spending the night in th
e New Castle? Why did he take such precautions not to be seen? A thousand suspicions crossed my mind — or rather all the terrible thoughts that had come to haunt me since we had been in the Fort of Hercules seized me again in their grasp and I felt that I must set my spirit at rest, immediately. I must follow Robert Darzac and discover “Australia.”

  I had reached the corridor almost as soon as he quitted it and I saw him beginning to climb very quietly the moth eaten wood of the stairway. I saw him pause at the first landing and push open a door. Then I saw nothing more. He had been swallowed up by the darkness — and, perhaps, by the room of which he had opened the door. I reached this door and finding it locked, I gave three little taps, certain that he was inside. And I waited. My heart was beating wildly. All these rooms were uninhabited — abandoned. What should M. Darzac be doing in one of these haunted chambers!

  I waited for a few moments which seemed to me like hours and as no one answered and the door did not open, I knocked again and waited again. Then the door was opened and I heard Darzac’s voice saying:

  “Is it you, Sainclair? What is it, my friend?”

  “I wanted to know what you could be doing here at such an hour?” I replied, and it seemed to me that my voice was that of another man, so great was my terror.

  Tranquilly, he struck a match and said:

  “You see. I am preparing for bed.”

  And he lit a candle which was placed on a chair, for there was no night stand in this dilapidated apartment. A bed in one corner — an iron bed which must have been brought there during the day, and a single chair, comprised all the furnishings.

  “I thought that you were going to sleep near Mme. Darzac and the Professor on the first floor of ‘la Louve’?”

  “The rooms are too small. I was afraid of inconveniencing Mme. Darzac,” answered the unhappy man, bitterly. “I asked Bernier to fetch me a bed here. And then what difference does it make where I am, since I do not sleep?”

  We were both silent for a moment. I was ashamed of myself and of my wretched suspicions. And, frankly, my remorse was so great that I could not refrain from giving it expression. I confessed everything to him; my infamous ideas and how I had even believed when I saw him wandering so mysteriously over the New Castle that it was upon some evil errand; and so had decided to go and look for the “Australia” birthmark. For I did not conceal from him that for a moment, I had placed all my hopes upon the Australia.

  He listened to me with such an expression of reproachful sorrow that it wrung my heart; then he quietly rolled up his shirt sleeve and bringing his bare arm close to the light, he showed me the birthmark, which made a sane man of me once more. I did not wish to look at it, but he even insisted upon my touching it and I knew beyond a doubt that it was a natural scar upon which one might place little dots with the names of the cities, “Sydney,”

  “Melbourne,”

  “Adelaide.” And beneath it there was another little blotch shaped like Tasmania.

  “You may rub it as much as you choose,” said Darzac, gently. “It will not come off.”

  I begged his pardon a thousand times over, with tears in my eyes, but he would not forgive me until he had made me pull at his beard which remained firmly attached to his chin, instead of coming off in my hand.

  Then, only, he allowed me to go back to my room, which I did, cursing myself for an idiot.

  CHAPTER XVII

  OLD BOB’S TERRIBLE ADVENTURE

  WHEN I AWAKENED my thoughts were still dwelling on Larsan. And, in truth, I did not know what to think either of myself or any other person — of Larsan’s death or of his life. Had he been wounded less seriously than we had believed? Or shall I say, “Was he less dead than we had thought?” Had he been able to extricate himself from the sack which Darzac had cast in the gulf of Castillon? After all, the thing was not impossible, or, rather, the possibility was not altogether without the bounds of what might be looked for from the superhuman cunning and prowess of a Larsan — particularly since Walter had explained that he had found the sack three meters from the mouth of the abyss upon a natural landing place the existence of which M. Darzac assuredly did not suspect when he believed that he was throwing Larsan’s body into the orifice.

  My second thoughts turned to Rouletabille. What was he doing now? Why had he gone away? Never had his presence at the Fort of Hercules been so necessary as now. If he delayed his return, this day could scarcely pass without bringing the unfriendly feeling between the Rances and the Darzacs to an open issue.

  As I lay there puzzling my brain over the outcome of the affair, I heard someone knocking at my door. It was Pere Bernier, who brought me a brief note from my friend which had been handed to Pere Jacques by a little lad from the village. Rouletabille wrote: “I shall return early in the morning. Get up as soon as this reaches you and be good enough to go fishing for my breakfast and catch some of the fine trout which are so plentiful among the rocks near the Point of Garibaldi. Do not lose an instant. Thanks and remembrances. — ROULETABILLE.”

  This communication gave me more food for thought, for I knew by experience that whenever Rouletabille seemed most occupied with trivial matters, his activity was really most thoroughly engaged with important subjects.

  I dressed myself in haste, provided myself with some old tackle which was furnished me by Bernier, and set out to obey the request of my young friend. As I went out of the North gate, having encountered nobody at that early hour of the morning (it was about seven o’clock), I was joined by Mme. Edith, to whom I showed what Rouletabille had written. The young woman was greatly dejected over the unexplained absence of her uncle, remarked that the letter was “so queer that it made her nervous,” and she informed me that she intended to follow me to the trout streams. On the way, she confided to me the fact that her uncle had not an enemy in the world, so far as she knew, and she said that she had been hoping against hope that he would yet return and that everything would be satisfactorily explained, but now the idea had entered her brain that by some frightful mistake, Old Bob had fallen a victim to the vengeance of Darzac and she was nearly wild with apprehension.

  And she added, between her pretty teeth, a few words of contempt and wrath for the Lady in Black. “My patience can hold out until noon, I hope!” she said, and then was silent.

  We started to fish for Rouletabille’s trout. Mrs. Rance and I both removed our shoes and stockings, but I concerned myself more about the dainty bare feet of my pretty hostess than about my own. The fact is, that Edith’s feet, as I discovered in the Bay of Hercules, were as beautifully shaped and pink as flowers and they made me forget the trout of my poor Rouletabille to such an extent that he must certainly have gone without his breakfast if Edith had not shown more energy than I. She clambered into the pools and crept among the rocks with a grace which enchanted me more than I dared express. Suddenly we both desisted from our task and pricked up our ears at the same moment. We heard cries from the shore where the grottoes are. Upon the very threshold of the Grotto of Romeo and Juliet we distinguished a little group, the persons in which were making gestures of appeal. Urged on by the same presentiment, we hastily rushed to the beach and in a few seconds we learned that, attracted by moans, two fishermen had just discovered in a cave in the Grotto of Romeo and Juliet an unfortunate human being who had fallen into the chasm and who must have been there helpless for several hours.

  The quick conjecture which rushed into both our minds at once proved to be the right one. It was Old Bob who had been fished out of the cave. When he had been drawn up on the beach in the full light of day, he certainly presented a pitiable spectacle. His beautiful black coat was torn and covered with mud and his white shirt was as black as tar. Mme. Edith burst into tears and nearly went into hysterics when she found that the old man had a broken collar bone and a sprained foot. And he was so pale that he looked as if he were going to die on the spot.

  Happily, the case was far less serious than it at first appeared. Ten minutes later he
was, according to his own orders, stretched out on his bed in his room in the Square Tower. But could anyone believe that he absolutely refused to be undressed, even so far as to have his coat removed, before the arrival of the doctors? Mme. Edith, more and more nervous, installed herself as his nurse; but when the physicians came, Old Bob ordered his niece not only to leave his room but to go out of the Square Tower altogether. And he insisted that the door should be locked after her.

  This last precaution was a great surprise to us all. We were assembled in the Court of the Bold, M. and Mme. Darzac, M. Arthur Rance and myself, as well as Pere Bernier, who haunted my footsteps, awaiting the news. When Mme. Edith quitted the tower after the arrival of the medical men, she came to us and said:

  “Let us hope that his injuries won’t be serious. Old Bob is solid as a rock. What did I tell you about him? I have made him confess, the old sinner! He was trying to steal Prince Galitch’s skull which he believed to be more ancient than his own. Just the jealousy of one savant toward another. We shall all laugh at him when he is cured!”