The Perfume of the Lady in Black

by Gaston Leroux

  So saying, the Lady of the Lake passed slowly on. The waters parted to their uttermost depths, but in vain the travellers’ gaze sought the beautiful Unknown Lady, who had drawn the wave like a veil over her head. None ever saw her again.’

  These were the very words, translated from the song that the soft male voice was singing to the melancholy accompaniment of the piano. I pushed open the drawing-room door, and found myself face to face with a young man. Mrs Rance came in just behind me. She introduced us. Prince Galitch stood before me.

  The Prince had what novelists would probably describe as a ‘pensive beauty’. His straight, somewhat hard features would have given his face a severe expression had it not been for his eyes, which were clear and soft and strangely candid, betraying an almost childlike soul. His long lashes were as black as if they had been painted.

  It was the extreme blackness of his eyelashes that gave his face its peculiar expression, for his skin was almost too fair, like that of a consumptive or of a woman cleverly made up. Such was my impression of him. But I was not surprised, for I had been told of his beauty. He struck me as being rather too young, probably because I was not young enough.

  I was at a loss for something to say to this too-handsome young man who sang strange songs with such grace. Smiling at my embarrassment, Mrs Rance took my arm (much to my delight) and led us across the courtyard to the palm arbour on the terrace of Charles the Bold’s Tower, where the luncheon table was set out.

  Lunch and what followed. Terror gains upon us.

  It was just midday when we took our seats on the terrace, from which we had a magnificent view. The palm-leaves afforded us pleasant shelter, but beyond the shade cast by the palms we could not have stood the glare upon earth and sea if we had not been wearing the dark glasses already referred to. Present at the table were Professor Stangerson, Mathilde, Old Bob, M. Darzac, Arthur Rance, Mrs Rance, Rouletabille, Prince Galitch and myself. Rouletabille sat with his back to the sea, paid only scant attention to the other guests and was so placed that he could keep watch over the entire castle. The servants were at their posts: Old Jacques by the entrance gate, Mattoni in the gardener’s gatehouse and the Berniers in the Square Tower opposite M. and Madame Darzac’s rooms.

  The beginning of the meal passed in silence. The prevailing anxiety was evident in our worried expressions as we mutely gazed at each other from behind our dark glasses, through which it was as impossible to read our eyes as our thoughts.

  Prince Galitch was the first to speak. He was most courteous with Rouletabille, but when he attempted to compliment the reporter on his reputation, the young man answered him somewhat rudely. The Prince did not appear in the least put out by Rouletabille’s abruptness, and went on to explain that, as a subject of the Tsar, he was particularly interested in Rouletabille, who was, he understood, shortly to leave for Russia. Rouletabille replied that nothing had been decided yet, and that he was awaiting definite orders from his chief.

  Thereupon the Prince seemed much astonished and drew a newspaper from his pocket. It was a Russian newspaper. He translated a few lines for us, which stated that Rouletabille was expected in St Petersburg shortly. Apparently, such extraordinary events were taking place in high spheres that, upon the personal advice of the Chief of the Paris Sûreté, the Head of the Russian Police had decided to ask L’Epoque to lend him the services of their junior reporter.

  Galitch put the matter so cleverly that Rouletabille blushed like a girl, and replied that he had never done any police duty in his short life, and that the Chief of the Paris Sûreté and the Head of the Russian Police were a couple of idiots. At this the Prince laughed gaily, showing his fine teeth, and I noted that his smile was not a pleasant one, but cruel and insipid, like the smile of a child on the face of an adult. He quite agreed with Rouletabille and in order to prove this, he said:

  ‘It is a real pleasure to hear you speak in that way, for it must be admitted that journalists are now asked to undertake things that bear no relation to their work as literary men.’

  Since Rouletabille made no reply, the conversation faltered.

  Mrs Rance rose from the table and went into raptures over the beauties of Nature about us. However, she thought that there was nothing more beautiful on all the Riviera than the ‘Hanging Gardens of Babylon’, and added:

  ‘They are all the more attractive because they can only be seen from a distance.’

  It was such an obvious hint that I thought the Prince would reply by extending an invitation to visit his property. He did not. Mrs Rance seemed slightly annoyed, and then said,

  ‘I wouldn’t want to lie to you, Prince. I have walked through your gardens.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’ enquired the Prince calmly.

  ‘Like this,’ she said. And she went on to relate the manner in which she had gained entrance to his famous gardens. The Prince stiffened visibly.

  She had gone in, as if by mistake, through a gate at the back that led directly on to the mountainside. She had walked on through one enchanted scene after another. The glimpse one got of the Gardens of Babylon from the coast had hardly prepared her for the beauties that were revealed to her.

  She arrived finally at the edge of a little lake, where she saw a tall lily and a little withered old woman with a pointed chin. When the old woman caught sight of her, she ran away, using the stalk of the lily as a stick. Mrs Rance had laughed heartily, and called out, ‘Madame, Madame!’ But the little old woman was all the more frightened at that, and disappeared behind a fig tree.

  Mrs Rance went on her way, but she began to feel nervous. Suddenly, she heard a rustling of leaves, like the sound that birds make when taking sudden flight at the approach of people. Then she saw a second old woman, even more withered (if that were possible) than the first, who was leaning upon a cane, the head of which was shaped like the beak of a carrion crow. She vanished, that is to say, Mrs Rance lost sight of her at a turning in the path. Then a third little old woman appeared, leaning on two sticks, each with crows’ beaks. She seemed to spring from the trunk of a huge eucalyptus tree. She hurried away and it was a wonder to Mrs Rance that she did not get her sticks and her feet in a tangle. She penetrated still further into the depths of the mysterious garden, and came to the marble steps of the villa, all garlanded with roses. But the three little old women were standing in a row on the steps, and when she approached, they began croaking so furiously that she was frightened and fled.

  Mrs Rance told her story with such charm that I was completely bewitched, and I understood how it is that some thoroughly artificial women have more power over the hearts of men than others who have nothing but Nature in their favour.

  The Prince did not seem in the least embarrassed by this story. He answered smilingly:

  ‘Those are my three witches. They have been with me ever since I was born. I can neither live nor work without them. I never go out without their permission, and they watch over my literary work with jealous care.’

  Galitch was still explaining the presence of the three old women in his garden, when Walter, Old Bob’s man, brought Rouletabille a telegram. The young man read it out loud: ‘Return at once. Awaiting you impatiently. Splendid reporting to do in St Petersburg.’ The telegram was signed by the editor-in-chief of L’Epoque.

  ‘Well, now what do you say, M. Rouletabille?’ asked the Prince. ‘Do you see how well informed I am?’

  The Lady in Black sighed.

  ‘I shall not go to St Petersburg,’ Rouletabille replied.

  ‘The Court will regret your decision, I am sure,’ said Galitch. ‘Permit me to tell you, young man, that you are missing the opportunity of a lifetime.’

  The term ‘young man’ evidently displeased Rouletabille, who opened his mouth to reply, but to my astonishment closed it with a snap without having spoken.

  The Prince went on to say:

  ‘You would have found a field there worthy of your powers. Nothing is beyond the powers of someone strong eno
ugh to catch a man like Larsan.’

  The name fell among us like a bomb. The silence which followed was horrible. We were petrified by that one word ‘Larsan’!

  Why was it that that name, which we had repeated so often during the last forty-eight hours, that name, which represented a danger to which we were almost becoming accustomed, why at that precise moment did that name have upon us an effect which, speaking for myself, had never seemed so violent? I felt as if I had been hypnotised, a curious malaise stole through my veins. I wanted to run away, and it seemed to me that if I stood up, I would scream. The silence which continued to reign uninterrupted among us only increased the feeling that we had been hypnotised. Why didn’t somebody speak? What had happened to Old Bob’s merry laughter? He hadn’t spoken once throughout the meal. And why were the others so silent? Suddenly, I looked behind me; I instinctively felt that someone was looking at me. Two eyes were staring at me, I felt their weight on me. I could not see those eyes and I did not know where the look came from, but it was there, I felt it, and I knew that his eyes were resting upon me.

  But there was nobody behind me, not to my right or my left, not in front of me, apart from the other people at the table, all as still as statues behind their dark glasses. Then I felt, with absolute certainty, that behind those black windows, somewhere, Larsan was watching me. Oh, those black, black windows, behind which Larsan was lurking!

  Just as abruptly the feeling left me. The gaze had evidently been withdrawn, and I breathed again. I heard an answering sigh. Had Rouletabille and the Lady in Black also felt the weight of those eyes? Old Bob was saying:

  ‘Prince, I have no faith in that thigh-bone of yours.’ And we came out of our trance.

  Rouletabille rose and motioned to me to follow him. I joined him in the meeting room. As soon as I appeared, he slammed the door behind me and exclaimed:

  ‘Well, did you feel him?’

  I blurted out: ‘He is here, he is here! Either that or we are all crazy!’ There was a moment’s silence, and I continued more calmly: ‘Do you know, Rouletabille, we might well be going crazy. This obsession with Larsan will land us all in an asylum. It is not two days since we shut ourselves up in this castle, and just look at the state we’re in!’

  Rouletabille interrupted me:

  ‘No, no, it isn’t imagination! I can feel him. He is here. But where, when? Ever since I came here I have had the feeling that I must not leave the place. I shan’t fall into a trap. I will not seek him outside, even though I saw him there, and you have seen him there too!’

  Then he suddenly calmed down, lit his pipe, and said, just as he used to in the old days before he knew the bonds that existed between himself and the Lady in Black:

  ‘Let’s reason this out.’

  He started at his usual point of departure: the need not to allow ourselves to be misled by circumstantial evidence. Not to seek Larsan where he was to be seen, but where he was hidden. In conclusion, he said: ‘If he shows himself so openly where he appears to be, it is so that we shall not see him where he is. Ah, appearances! Look here, Sainclair, there are times when I’d like to tear my eyes out so as to be able to think better. Let’s forget about our eyes for five minutes, Sainclair, and then perhaps we shall be able to see.’ He sat down, put his pipe on the table, and, holding his head in his hands, said: ‘Now! My eyes are gone. Tell me, Sainclair, what is there on the inside of these stone walls?’

  ‘Do you mean, what do I see inside the stone walls?’ I asked.

  ‘No, no, you have no eyes now. You can’t see anything. Tell me what you know is inside. And leave nothing out.’

  At last, I understood what he was driving at.

  ‘First, there’s you and me.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Neither you nor I is Larsan,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Oh, come now!’

  ‘Tell me why. You must tell me why. I admit that I’m not Larsan. I’m sure of it, because I am Rouletabille, but will you tell me why, as far as Rouletabille is concerned, you should not be Larsan?’

  ‘Because you would have seen it.’

  ‘Fool!’ howled Rouletabille, jamming his fists tighter than ever into his eyes. ‘I have no eyes. I can’t see! If Jarry, the detective, had not seen the Comte de Maupas sit down at the gambling table at Trouville, he would have sworn on the strength of his reason that the man who held the cards at that minute was Ballmeyer. If Noblet, another detective, had not found himself face to face with a man whom he recognised as the Vicomte Drouet d’Erlon, at the house of a demimondaine in La Troyon, he would have sworn that the man he had come to arrest, and didn’t because he saw him, was Ballmeyer. If Inspector Giraud, who knew Comte de Motteville as well as you know me, had not seen him one afternoon at the racecourse at Longchamps talking to two of his friends – if, I say, he had not seen Comte de Motteville, he would have arrested Ballmeyer. Oh, don’t you understand, Sainclair,’ the young fellow went on, his voice hoarse with emotion, ‘my father was born before I was. And you have to be mightily clever to arrest my father!’

  He said all this so despairingly that the little strength I had left for reasoning vanished entirely. All I could do was to raise my hands to heaven, but he did not see me, for he would not look at anything.

  ‘No, no!’ he repeated. ‘We must not see any more, not you, nor M. Stangerson, nor M. Darzac, nor Arthur Rance, nor Old Bob, nor Prince Galitch. But we must know why none of these is Larsan. Only then shall I be able to breathe freely inside these stone walls!’

  I certainly was not breathing freely. We could hear the regular tread of Mattoni, who was on watch in the gatehouse.

  Finally, with an effort, I said: ‘How about Mattoni? And the other servants, what about them?’

  ‘I know positively that none of them was away from the castle at the time that Larsan appeared to M. and Madame Darzac at the railway station at Bourg.’

  ‘Admit it,’ I said, ‘admit that you pay no attention to them because none of the servants was wearing dark glasses a little while ago.’

  Rouletabille stamped impatiently.

  ‘Hush, hush! You are going to make me even more nervous than my mother does!’

  This remark, spoken angrily, struck me as strange. I wanted to question Rouletabille concerning the Lady in Black’s ideas, but he had begun speaking again:

  ‘Firstly, Sainclair is not Larsan, because Sainclair was with me at Tréport when Larsan was at Bourg. Secondly, Professor Stangerson isn’t Larsan, because he was on the road between Dijon and Lyon while Larsan was at Bourg. As a matter of fact, M. and Madame Darzac, who had arrived at Lyon one minute before he did, saw him get out of the train. But as far as any of the others are concerned, if in order to be Larsan it was merely possible for them to be at Bourg at that time, then they might very well be he, for there is no reason why they should not have been there. To begin with, M. Darzac was there and Arthur Rance was away during the two days which preceded the arrival of M. Darzac and the Professor. He got to Menton just in time to receive them. It was Mrs Rance herself who, in answer to my question, confessed to me that her husband had been called away on business during those two days. Old Bob was on his way to Paris. Finally, Prince Galitch was not seen either at the caves nor anywhere else outside the “Hanging Gardens of Babylon”. Let’s begin with Darzac …’

  ‘Rouletabille,’ I exclaimed, ‘that would be a dreadful idea!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And it would be stupid.’

  ‘I know that, too. But why?’

  ‘Because,’ said I, losing my temper, ‘Larsan may be a genius, he might deceive a detective or a reporter or even a Rouletabille, he might deceive a girl into making her believe he was her father. I say this so that you may think what you like about Professor Stangerson, but you could never deceive a woman to the extent of making her think he was her betrothed. Now, then, my friend, Mathilde Stangerson knew Darzac before she came to the Chateau d’Hercule with him!’
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  ‘She knew Larsan too,’ replied Rouletabille coldly. ‘My dear fellow, your reasoning may be good, but, since I don’t know just how far my father’s genius can go, I would rather, in order to restore to M. Darzac a character of which I have never thought of robbing him, to base my reasoning on a more solid foundation, which is this: If Robert Darzac were Larsan, Larsan would not, upon several occasions, have appeared to Mathilde Stangerson, because it is Larsan’s reappearance which robs Darzac of his wife!’

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s the use of all these useless arguments, when you have only to look about you? Open your eyes, Rouletabille!’

  ‘Whom shall I look at?’ he said bitterly, looking up at me. ‘Prince Galitch, for instance?’

  ‘Why not? How do you like that Russian Prince and his strange songs?’

  ‘Not much,’ he answered, ‘but Mrs Rance seems rather keen on him.’

  I clenched my fists. He saw me, but took no notice.

  ‘Prince Galitch is a nihilist who really doesn’t interest me much,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Are you quite sure? Who told you so?’

  ‘Bernier’s wife knows one of the three little old women that Mrs Rance told us about at luncheon. I have been making inquiries. She is the wife of one of the three fellows hanged at Kazan because they wanted to blow up the Tsar. I saw their photos. The other two old women are also mothers. Nothing there.’

  I could not but admire him.

  ‘You don’t waste any time,’ I said.

  ‘Neither does he,’ he grumbled.

  ‘How about Old Bob?’

  ‘No, my dear fellow, no !’ replied Rouletabille, almost in a rage. ‘Not that man! You can see that he’s wearing a wig, can’t you? Well, I’ll have you know that when my father wears a wig, you don’t notice it!’

  He was so disagreeable about it that I got up to go. But he stopped me.

  ‘We haven’t said anything about Arthur Rance.’

  ‘Oh, he’s the same as always!’ I said.