The third time she had determined to keep the appointment. He asked for it in the letter he had written in her own room, on the night of the incident in the gallery, which he left on her desk. In that letter he threatened to burn her father’s papers if she did not meet him. It was to rescue these papers that she made up her mind to see him. She did not for one moment doubt that the wretch would carry out his threat if she persisted in avoiding him, and in that case the labours of her father’s lifetime would be for ever lost. Since the meeting was thus inevitable, she resolved to see her husband and appeal to his better nature. It was for this interview that she had prepared herself on the night the keeper was killed. They did meet, and what passed between them may be imagined. He insisted that she renounce Darzac. She, on her part, affirmed her love for him. He stabbed her in his anger, determined to convict Darzac of the crime. As Larsan he could do it, and had so managed things that Darzac could never explain how he had employeed the time of his absence from the chateau. Ballmeyer’s precautions were most cunningly taken.
Larsan had threatened Darzac as he had threatened Mathilde — with the same weapon, and the same threats. He wrote Darzac urgent letters, declaring himself ready to deliver up the letters that had passed between him and his wife, and to leave them for ever, if he would pay him his price. He asked Darzac to meet him for the purpose of arranging the matter, appointing the time when Larsan would be with Mademoiselle Stangerson. When Darzac went to Epinay, expecting to find Ballmeyer or Larsan there, he was met by an accomplice of Larsan’s, and kept waiting until such time as the “coincidence” could be established.
It was all done with Machiavellian cunning; but Ballmeyer had reckoned without Joseph Rouletabille.
Now that the Mystery of “The Yellow Room” has been cleared up, this is not the time to tell of Rouletabille’s adventures in America. Knowing the young reporter as we do, we can understand with what acumen he had traced, step by step, the story of Mathilde Stangerson and Jean Roussel. At Philadelphia he had quickly informed himself as to Arthur William Rance. There he learned of Rance’s act of devotion and the reward he thought himself entitled to for it. A rumour of his marriage with Mademoiselle Stangerson had once found its way into the drawing-rooms of Philadelphia. He also learned of Rance’s continued attentions to her and his importunities for her hand. He had taken to drink, he had said, to drown his grief at his unrequited love. It can now be understood why Rouletabille had shown so marked a coolness of demeanour towards Rance when they met in the witnesses’ room, on the day of the trial.
The strange Roussel-Stangerson mystery had now been laid bare. Who was this Jean Roussel? Rouletabille had traced him from Philadelphia to Cincinnati. In Cincinnati he became acquainted with the old aunt, and had found means to open her mouth. The story of Ballmeyer’s arrest threw the right light on the whole story. He visited the “presbytery” — a small and pretty dwelling in the old colonial style — which had, indeed, “lost nothing of its charm.” Then, abandoning his pursuit of traces of Mademoiselle Stangerson, he took up those of Ballmeyer. He followed them from prison to prison, from crime to crime. Finally, as he was about leaving for Europe, he learned in New York that Ballmeyer had, five years before, embarked for France with some valuable papers belonging to a merchant of New Orleans whom he had murdered.
And yet the whole of this mystery has not been revealed. Mademoiselle Stangerson had a child, by her husband, — a son. The infant was born in the old aunt’s house. No one knew of it, so well had the aunt managed to conceal the event.
What became of that son? — That is another story which, so far, I am not permitted to relate.
About two months after these events, I came upon Rouletabille sitting on a bench in the Palais de Justice, looking very depressed.
“What’s the matter, old man?” I asked. “You are looking very downcast. How are your friends getting on?”
“Apart from you,” he said, “I have no friends.”
“I hope that Monsieur Darzac—”
“No doubt.”
“And Mademoiselle Stangerson — How is she?”
“Better — much better.”
“Then you ought not to be sad.”
“I am sad,” he said, “because I am thinking of the perfume of the lady in black—”
“The perfume of the lady in black! — I have heard you often refer to it. Tell me why it troubles you.”
“Perhaps — some day; some day,” said Rouletabille.
And he heaved a profound sigh.
The Perfume of the Woman in Black (1908)
Anonymous 1908 translation, New York
Original French Title: ‘Le parfum de la dame en noir’
Published in 1908, The Perfume of the Lady in Black is the second in the series of books featuring the amateur detective Joseph Rouletabille. Readers should be aware that if this story is read before The Mystery of the Yellow Room, they will find that some of the characters from the first book are present in the second novel and it may spoil the mystery of the first story when one does eventually read it!
The novel is narrated by M. Sainclair, the older lawyer friend of Joseph Rouletabille, who was introduced along with Rouletabille in the first novel and we are told by Sainclair that this subsequent mystery is just one of a series of ‘mysterious, cruel and sensational dramas’ that followed on from the first one. Two more characters re-appear – the lovely Mlle Mathilde Stangerson and her husband, Robert Darzac, who have married discreetly in Paris and now live in a medieval castle, the Fort of Hercules. Mathilde should now be free to enjoy her new life, having been liberated from the clutches of Frederic Larsan, a police detective and master of disguise, who tricked her into marriage and motherhood some years previously. Most of the people in her circle and in the wider public are confident that Larsan is now dead and no one regrets the passing of such a manipulative and murderous man, who reputedly died at sea as he fled the country.
One person does not follow the popular opinion, however — Rouletabille. He is not so certain that Larsan is actually dead, but conceals his thoughts from the newlyweds, as they happily set off for their honeymoon on the overnight train. They are travelling to a castle on the Italian side of the Riviera, owned by Mr. Arthur Rance, an American and his wife Edith. Rance is another familiar character, a scientist who had previously held unrequited love for Mathilde. It is to be a fraught journey, however, as Mathilde recognises Larsan, disguised as a member of the railway company’s staff and realises of course that not only is he very much alive and well, but is following her with evil intent. Naturally, she is deeply shocked and Darzac in turn is distraught at this shocking start to their married life; but, of course, if Larsan is still alive, he and Mathilde are not legally married, but technically, bigamists. Rouletabille and Sainclair are called upon and by the time the newly weds reach their destination, the two investigators, Mathilde’s father, Rouletabille and their hosts the Rances have come together to form a protective ‘circle’ around them. With Mathilde’s peace of mind shattered yet again, her new husband on the edge of a nervous collapse and a truly formidable opponent in the form of Larsan, master of disguise, can Rouletabille really protect his charges and finally bring down the psychopathic criminal?
This is a somewhat convoluted story and not so easy to follow as The Mystery of the Yellow Room, despite the familiarity of many of the characters. There is also a surprising diversion regarding the origins and parentage of Rouletabille himself, which does rather feel like an afterthought from Leroux. Sadly, Rouletabille is rather lost in the general melee of characters and events in the first half of the novel, which is a shame as he is a colourful and strong character when given the space by the author to flourish, but the story does settle down and gathers pace once the party has arrived at the Rance’s residence. Read on to see if Rouletabille can finally vanquish his great nemesis, Larsan…
The novel has been adapted for film numerous times, all retaining the book’s original title, albeit in v
arious languages. The original French production of 1914, released in France as Le Parfum de la dame en noir, was directed by Maurice Toureur. Maurice de Feraudy starred as Rouletabille. The 1931 adaptation was filmed at a Parisian film studio and directed by Marcel L’Herbier, starring Roland Toutain (as Rouletabille), Huguette Duflos and Marcel Vibert. L’Herbier had completed an adaptation of The Mystery of the Yellow Room the previous year. It was this film that made Toutain’s name as a popular movie actor and from this success he went on to work with eminent film makers such as Fritz Lang. In the 1949 adaptation, Italian-French born actor Serge Reggiani plays Rouletabille.
The first edition’s title page
The plan for the chateau
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
The 1931 film adaptation, directed by Marcel L’Herbier and starring Roland Toutain
CHAPTER I
WHICH BEGINS WHERE MOST ROMANCES END
THE MARRIAGE OF M. Robert Darzac and Mlle. Mathilde Stangerson took place in Paris, at the Church of St. Nicolas du Chardonnet, on April 6th, 1895, everything connected with the occasion being conducted in the quietest fashion possible. A little more than two years had rolled by since the events which I have recorded in a previous volume — events so sensational that it is not speaking too strongly to say that an even longer lapse of time would not have sufficed to blot out the memory of the famous “Mystery of the Yellow Room.”
There was no doubt in the minds of those concerned that, if the arrangements for the wedding had not been made almost secretly, the little church would have been thronged and surrounded by a curious crowd, eager to gaze upon the principal personages of the drama which had aroused an interest almost world wide and the circumstances of which were still present in the minds of the sensation-loving public. But in this isolated little corner of the city, in this almost unknown parish, it was easy enough to maintain the utmost privacy. Only a few friends of M. Darzac and Professor Stangerson, on whose discretion they felt assured that they might rely, had been invited. I had the honor to be one of the number.
I reached the church early, and, naturally, my first thought was to look for Joseph Rouletabille. I was somewhat surprised at not seeing him, but, having no doubt that he would arrive shortly, I entered the pew already occupied by M. Henri-Robert and M. Andre Hesse, who, in the quiet shades of the little chapel, exchanged in undertones reminiscences of the strange affair at Versailles, which the approaching ceremony brought to their memories. I listened without paying much attention to what they were saying, glancing from time to time carelessly around me.
A dreary place enough is the Church of St. Nicolas du Chardonnet. With its cracked walls, the lizards running from every corner and dirt — not the beautiful dust of ages, but the common, ill-smelling, germ-laden dust of to-day — everywhere, this church, so dark and forbidding on the outside, is equally dismal within. The sky, which seems rather to be withdrawn from than above the edifice, sheds a miserly light which seems to find the greatest difficulty in penetrating through the dusty panes of unstained glass. Have you read Renan’s “Memories of Childhood and Youth?” Push open the door of St. Nicolas du Chardonnet and you will understand how the author of the “Life of Jesus” longed to die, when as a lad he was a pupil in the little seminary of the Abbe Duplanloup, close by, and could only leave the school to come to pray in this church. And it was in this funereal darkness, in a scene which seemed to have been painted only for mourning and for all the rites consecrated to sorrow, that the marriage of Robert Darzac and Mathilde Stangerson was to be solemnized. I could not cast aside the feeling of foreboding that came over me in these dreary surroundings.
Beside me, M. Henri-Robert and M. Andre Hesse continued to chat, and my wandering attention was arrested by a remark made by the former:
“I never felt quite easy about Robert and Mathilde,” he said— “not even after the happy termination of the affair at Versailles — until I knew that the information of the death of Frederic Larsan had been officially confirmed. That man was a pitiless enemy.”
It will be remembered, perhaps, by readers of “The Mystery of the Yellow Room,” that a few months after the acquittal of the Professor in Sorbonne, there occurred the terrible catastrophe of La Dordogne, a transatlantic steamer, running between Havre and New York. In the broiling heat of a summer night, upon the coast of the New World, La Dordogne had caught fire from an overheated boiler. Before help could reach her, the steamer was utterly destroyed. Scarcely thirty passengers were able to leap into the life boats, and these were picked up the next day by a merchant vessel, which conveyed them to the nearest port. For days thereafter, the ocean cast up on the beach hundreds of corpses. And among these, they found Larsan.
The papers which were found carefully hidden in the clothing worn by the dead man, proved beyond a doubt his identity. Mathilde Stangerson was at last delivered from this monster of a husband to whom, through the facility of the American laws, she had given her hand in secret, in the unthinking ardour of girlish romance. This wretch, whose real name, according to court records, was Ballmeyer, and who had married her under the name of Jean Roussel, could no longer rise like a dark shadow between Mathilde and the man whom she had loved so long and so well, without daring to become his bride. In “The Mystery of the Yellow Room,” I have related all the details of this remarkable affair, one of the strangest which has ever been known in the annals of the Court of Assizes, and which, without doubt, would have had a most tragic denouement, had it not been for the extraordinary part played by a boy reporter, scarcely eighteen years old, Joseph Rouletabille, who was the only one to discover that Frederic Larsan, the celebrated Secret Service agent, was none other than Ballmeyer himself. The accidental — one might almost say “providential” — death of this villain, had seemed to assure a happy termination to the extraordinary story, and it must be confessed that it was undoubtedly one of the chief factors in the rapid recovery of Mathilde Stangerson, whose reason had been almost overturned by the mysterious horrors at the Glandier.
“You see, my dear fellow,” said M. Henri-Robert to M. Andre Hesse, whose eyes were roving restlessly about the church, “you see, in this world, one can always find the bright side. See how beautifully everything has turned out — even the troubles of Mlle. Stangerson. But why are you constantly looking around you? What are you looking for? Do you expect anyone?”
“Yes,” replied M. Hesse. “I expect Frederic Larsan.”
M. Henri-Robert laughed — a decorous little laugh, in deference to the sanctity of the surroundings. But I felt no inclination to join in his mirth. I was an hundred leagues from foreseeing the terrible experience which was even then approaching us; but when I recall that moment and seek to blot out of my mind all that has happened since — all those events which I intend to relate in the course of this narrative, letting the circumstances come before the reader as they came before us during their development — I recollect once more the curious unrest which thrilled me at the mention of Larsan’s name.
“What’s the matter, Sainclair?” whispered M. Henri Robert, who must have noticed something odd in my expression. “You know that Hesse was only joking.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” I answered. And I looked attentively around me, as M. Andre Hesse had done. And, indeed, we had believed Larsan dead so often when he was known as Ballmeyer, that it seemed quite possible that he might be once more brought to life in the guise of Larsan.
“Her
e comes Rouletabille,” remarked M. Henri-Robert. “I’ll wager that he isn’t worrying about anything.”
“But how pale he is!” exclaimed M. Andre Hesse in an undertone.
The young reporter joined us and pressed our hands in an absent-minded manner.
“Good morning, Sainclair. Good morning, gentlemen. I am not late, I hope?”
It seemed to me that his voice trembled. He left our pew immediately and withdrew to a dark corner, where I beheld him kneel down like a child. He hid his face, which was indeed very pale, in his hands, and prayed. I had never guessed that Rouletabille was of a religious turn of mind, and his fervent devotion astonished me. When he raised his head, his eyes were filled with tears. He did not even try to hide them. He paid no attention to anything or anyone around him. He was lost completely in his prayers, and, one might imagine, in his grief.
But what could be the occasion of his sorrow? Was he not happy at the prospect of the union so ardently desired by everyone? Had not the good fortune of Mathilde Stangerson and Robert Darzac been in a great measure brought about by his efforts? After all, it was perhaps from joy, that the lad wept. He rose from his knees, and was hidden behind a pillar. I made no endeavor to join him, for I could see that he was anxious to be alone.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 24
