It was a sombre tragedy enveloped in impenetrable obscurity, and on the threshold of it stood the gentle monster with the head of a sphinx; the eternal feminine.
Poor Joseph Rouletabille! I have seen him — him whom no problem had hitherto withstood, him whose intelligence had plumbed all the deeps which could be fathomed by Reason — I have seen him momentarily quail affrighted before the eyes of a woman, as though confronted with a terrible and inscrutable mystery.
It may, perhaps, be remembered that the young journalist went to Bulgaria to seek out the girl who was to become his wife, and whom he had met for the first time in the students’ room of the Pitié Hospital, for Ivana — such was her name — was quite young when she came to Paris to study medicine.
Ivana Vilitchkov was of extraordinary beauty, and belonged to one of the most eminent families in Sofia; a family which was cruelly involved in the tragic disaster which befell the Bulgarian statesman Stamboulof and his party. These facts are well known. Every newspaper told the story of the sanguinary events which at the time of the Balkan conflict seemed to be the sinister prologue to the brilliant marriage which was celebrated at the Madeleine in the presence of all that go to make up a great public function in Paris.
After the world war, Ivana returned to her medical studies and her work in the laboratory. I may say that she gave up everything in order to devote herself completely to the Roland Boulenger Institute. To my thinking she made the gravest of blunders, and Rouletabille was in some measure to blame for, sickened by the injustice of the official world, which endeavoured to thwart the labours of a man whom the School of Medicine and the Academy affected to regard as a quack, he allowed himself to be too easily persuaded by Ivana, who had espoused
Boulenger’s quarrel as though it were her own.
We all know our Rouletabille! He never did things by halves. His articles in the newspapers added fuel to the flame. He daringly maintained that Roland Boulenger’s methods were triumphant in America, and he predicted that if France were once again to show herself unmindful of one of her great sons, Boulenger would shake off the dust of his native land from his feet, like so many others, and transplant his “genius” to a foreign country.
Was Roland Boulenger in point of fact a man of genius? That remains to be seen. I have always regarded him as a bit of a “swanker.” Certainly his manners were without simplicity. He was too much of the fine gentleman, and his language was too flowery. But undoubtedly he had a charming way with him. Women were infatuated with him, and his lectures, of which they understood nothing, were the meeting-place of the fashionable world, just as Caro’s lectures were in his day. Added to this, he loved the pleasures of society though they did not prevent him from working his twelve hours a day. His inventive mind was concerned with every sphere of action. That was his sin in the eyes of his fellow men. A great deal of laughter was excited by his new gun with its lateral percussion; his new system of gearing for motor engines; and his new process of making wine effervescent. Nevertheless the companies which were formed to exploit the patents for these things did not seem to go into bankruptcy.
After making people laugh he made them roar. This was when he laid profane hands on Pasteur’s work by reviewing the subject of spontaneous generation. He declared that nothing was definitely proved, and his very curious researches in regard to sensibility, anaesthesia, and the generation of metals led the way, it must be confessed, to certain unknown theories never before contemplated.
His last effort dealt with the bacillus of tuberculosis, and he inaugurated at his Institute a new serotherapy which raised great hopes and infuriated medical men. The truth was that the results were contradictory, and he suspended the treatment of his own accord, retorting upon those who raised a hue and cry that before the end of the year he would have killed Koch’s bacillus.
It was an open secret that Boulenger’s new method was based on the singular advantage that when fowls are inoculated with human tuberculosis, cysts are formed in which the microbe lingers for a considerable time without generating so that the tubercular change is localized.
For more than a year the Institute grounds behind the Observatory had been transformed into an immense poultry run. I was aware that Ivana lived there as a farmer’s wife during the day and as the great man’s secretary during a part of the night.
Rouletabille had the remainder of her time. If he found life a bed of roses so much the better for him. It would not have suited me, though I did not doubt Ivana’s love for her husband, but in my opinion virtue should not be put to too severe a test.
I had seen neither the one nor the other of them for a fortnight — we were in the last days of July — when on leaving the Law Courts to which I had no thought of returning until after the long vacation, I ran up against Rouletabille.
“My dear Sainclair,” he said, “I was on my way to you. We’re going to take you with us to Deauville.”
“Deauville!” I exclaimed, “I don’t see Ivana going to Deauville. She loves the real country. And she loathes the smart set.”
“My dear fellow, she is having some dresses made. She has greatly changed. The Boulengers are taking us with them. They told me to invite you, and Ivana is relying on you to come.”
“Is that particular story true?” I questioned.
Rouletabille abandoned his chaffing manner.
“It’s I who am asking you to come — so come!”
When I reached home I lay back in my chair before my desk and covered my face with my hands. I closed my eyes, and it was not the enigmatic countenance of Ivana which appeared to me now under the veil of my closed eyelids, but a very pretty fair-haired girl, with eyes of a divine blue, a budding smile, a look of purity.
This innocence had fascinated me unknown to her, the dear child, one fine spring morning, when the rising sun was streaming down on the quays and the boxes of the second-hand booksellers. She was with her dear old mother, who was hunting for some school book or other for her which she required in order to pass an examination. She was seventeen years old, and had never left her mother’s apron-strings. She lived in the district. She was not poor, but she was honest. Her circumstances were unpretentious; she came of an excellent family, possessed irreproachable manners, and an inheritance of virtue. She knew nothing of the horrors of Paris. I married her.
At all events I knew what I was about! I had made my inquiries. I had studied my beautiful little innocent closely for some months. I was not the man to seek out an untamed bride from the Balkans. Thus straightway, as I had foreseen, I was quietly happy as I wished to be. I took good care, moreover, to protect my happiness with every reasonable precaution. As I was very much in love, I fully realized that I was the stuff of which jealous men are made; all the more so as I was no longer in the first flush of youth. Accordingly, apart from Rouletabille, I invited only such old friends to my house as would not cast me in the shade.
Well one fine day I had evidence — I have nothing to conceal, alas! since my ill-luck was made only too public — that those frank eyes, that innocent face, those golden strands, those artless lips — all that purity had played me false.
After such an experience it is not surprising that I no longer believe in anything. It is not to be wondered at that I end everything upon a note of interrogation. Ah, Rouletabille, when you made me your counsel in this terrible business, you knew how my heart was hurt by the treachery of a beloved being, and in those moments when you believed that all was over with you, nowhere did the pain in your own heart find a more sensitive echo!
CHAPTER II
MASKS AND FACES
ON RECEIVING A letter from Madame Boulenger inviting me to spend a few days at The Thatches, where Rouletabille and Ivana had already arrived, I set out for Deauville.
The Thatches was one of the finest houses in the country, possessing a certain affectation of rustic style about it by no means incompatible with splendour. The Boulengers were very rich. When the Professor was a poor man,
though even then he was celebrated for his early researches, he married Madame Hugon, the young widow of old Monsieur Hugon who made an immense fortune out of Sicilian phosphates. The marriage enabled the Professor to forsake his private hospital and to devote himself almost exclusively to his work in the laboratory.
Madame Boulenger was now going on for her fortieth year. But her complexion still possessed the bloom of youth, and she was not without a certain sober elegance which, if I may venture to say so, was well in keeping with her particular style.
What, then, was Madame Boulenger’s style? It chiefly consisted of a sedate affability which was certainly not without its charm for the men and women whom her husband admitted to his hearth.
She knew when to lay aside the manners of the scientist, which she had become under her husband’s tuition. This woman, whose education had been wholly classical, had applied herself to the study of medicine and chemistry with the zeal of a novice and had succeeded in storming the laboratory in which Roland confined himself, becoming his principal assistant in the preparation of his laboratory work. The master’s disciples did not hesitate to say that she played a considerable part in the later successes of the Boulenger Institute, but such language only exasperated her, and she impatiently silenced such tattlers and even her husband when the subject was touched upon.
Her only happiness lay in Roland’s fame; her only desire was to please him. She surrounded him with almost maternal solicitude. Her perfectly equable disposition in every circumstance rendered the Boulenger home something out of the common.
It was entirely to her credit, for her devil of a husband was endowed with an energy which he squandered in every direction. My meaning will be understood.
Roland Boulenger, who was not much older than his wife, had had and continued to have a succession of love affairs. He never wasted a moment of his time. That was well known, and Thérèse — for such was Madame Boulenger’s Christian name — was fully aware that her husband ran work and play in double harness. He did not always act with caution. She was the first to treat these episodes lightly, and if she suffered it was scarcely apparent. When any too definite reference was made to them by her friends, who attempted to condole with her, she answered:
“Oh, I’ve been nothing but a mere mind for a long time. I love Roland for his intellect and his nobleness of heart and feeling. All else is of no consequence — so much nonsense.”
True enough, the only thing that worried her was her husband’s health, for he habitually overworked himself. The year before, at the time of his great weakness for Théodora Luigi, she was startled by the growing physical deterioration in which she found him. Then, and not till then, did she utter a protest:
“I don’t mind my husband amusing himself,” she said to Rouletabille, “but I do object to his lady friends killing him.”
She was told that Théodora Luigi was a regular opium smoker, and that her imagination as a courtesan could summon up at will wonderful but fearsome fantasies. She threw herself at her husband’s feet:
“You have no right to impair your health. It does not belong to you. It belongs to science and to all those persons whose lives you can save. Listen to me, my Roland. You know that as a rule I say nothing. I act towards you like a wise mother who when her son is playing pranks, turns her head the other way.... But take a look at your poor face. You make me very miserable.”
She was splendid was Madame Boulenger! She was one of the best of women. And as Boulenger was neither a knave nor a fool he recognized that she was right and clasped her to his heart.
He allowed himself to be taken for a few weeks to the South. When Thérèse brought him back to Paris, Theodora Luigi had set out to travel about the world with Prince Henry of Albania. Roland was saved....
I reached Deauville by the midday train. Rouletabille met me at the station. He gave me a good account of every one. We exchanged a few words on trivial matters, and soon our car pulled up at The Thatches. I was surprised that no one appeared to welcome us. Rouletabille informed me, as he showed me to my room, that lunch was served very late at Deauville, and that the Professor worked until one o’clock.
“Do you mean to say he works here, too?” I asked. “But I presume your wife doesn’t do anything?”
“The Professor, Ivana and Madame Boulenger are shut up writing out their report on the final stage of their researches regarding tuberculosis in gallinaceous birds.”
“What a delightful holiday! Well, what about you. Are you doing any work?”
“No, I amuse myself.”
“In what way?”
“Making sand pies.”
“So people do go on the beach at Deauville?”
“Yes, I and children and their nurses do.” With that he left me, for he had some friend to see whom he was sure to meet at La Potinière, where all the smart set from Paris congregated at that particular hour.
A few minutes later I descended to the garden, which was of some, size and contained many splendid flower-beds and fine shady retreats. The servants were laying the table under some trees not far away.
Nearer still I suddenly perceived Madame Boulenger, who smilingly came towards me. I went to meet her, skirting the side of the house.
Above my head was an open window, and I distinctly heard Ivana say:
“I wish you wouldn’t.... I wish you wouldn’t.... Please let go my hand. Oh, Professor, you are unendurable.”
I shall never forget the emphasis with which she said, “I wish you wouldn’t,” though, to be sure, the entreaty was uttered in a gentle and not at all threatening voice. I was somewhat pale when I came up to Madame Boulenger. It seemed to me out of the question that she had not caught Ivana’s words. I had heard them distinctly, and Thérèse was scarcely farther away from the window than I was.... But I must have been mistaken, for no change came over her face, and she bade me welcome in a perfectly normal manner.
Ivana and Boulenger were not long in making their appearance. It seemed to me, at first, that they assumed towards each other an over elaborate courtesy, but this feeling was soon dispelled by Ivana’s delightful good humour and the Professor’s high spirits.
Both of them expressed great pleasure at seeing me again. They made no secret of their belief that my presence would, in particular, be beneficial to Rouletabille, who was rather left to himself.
“It’s all due to that infernal report and to those no less infernal fowls who haven’t yet surrendered their secret to us; but in a few days we shall have finished with scribbling, I hope, and then what jaunts we’ll have in the car! We’ll say good-bye to La Potinière and go off to Brittany. First stage — an omelet with old Mother Poulard!”
He was beaming was this man, and there was a fire in his sombre eyes with their sunken cavities which was disquieting and often gave me pause. Some of his friends asserted that he had devoted himself with such ardour to his fight against tuberculosis only because he himself was stricken with the terrible malady. —
We sat down at table. The lunch was perfect. Rouletabille had come back from La Potinière with the latest stories of the night before. The gaming-rooms were not closed until four o’clock in the morning, and the most obstinate of the gamblers had revenged themselves upon the management for turning them out by carrying off the instruments belonging to the jazz band, and making a diabolical row with them. Decked out in this way they marched to Léontine’s place, woke her up, and made her come down and reopen her bar and provide them with supper. And here they started once more a mad gamble with dice. Big Berwick compelled Ramel, a young journalist on Dramatica, to stake the five louis which he had in his pocket, and by eight o’clock in the morning young Ramel had won twenty-five thousand francs. He at once seized the opportunity of ordering himself some onion soup.
I am going into these details so as to convey some idea of the tone and manner of our breakfast party. At the very moment when we were laughing among ourselves, apparently without ulterior motive, Roland Boulenger,
who gave the cue to Rouletabille’s chatter, was endeavouring to reach Ivana’s foot under the table. I saw it myself. What liars and children men become under the influence of a violent passion! I watched his sprightly features, which happened to be turned towards us, and caught a glimpse of a real bacchanalian look in Roland’s face. That man was at that very moment committing an intolerable action, and I think I may say that he was wholly unconscious of its enormity.
The more I think of it the more I believe that the predominant trait in his character should be sought in his artless and absorbing egotism. In reality this almost inhuman recklessness, this fierce dominion of the passions, this smiling impetuosity of the conqueror, this rampant individualism — all these things stood out in Roland Boulenger, to my mind, rather than the generous soul of an apostle and scientist whose life was dedicated to the service of humanity, and who seemed to dazzle the minds of so many simpletons and poor Thérèse in particular. We shall have an opportunity of speaking of Ivana later on.
“Is it possible,” I asked myself, “that I am the only one to notice what is happening, and can a man with so shrewd a mind as Rouletabille fail to see these manœuvres? And if he has noticed them what part am I playing here, and what have I come here for?”
CHAPTER III
THE KISS ON THE TERRACE
AFTER DINNER THAT evening we went to the Casino. It was the height of the season, and the scene also the height of folly. How did the crowd manage to find so much money? As may be imagined I am not going to play the censor nor describe a baccarat room. I saw hundreds of thousands of francs change hands in the Club in a few throws of the cards. But what astounded me most was the splendour of the women’s frocks and their calm impropriety. I know that I am old-fashioned, an “old lawyer,” anything you please, but there is a limit to everything. I draw the line at bare backs. However!...
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 85
