Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “With my wife,” Rouletabille at length replied in a tone of annoyance. When they took their seats a confused hum of admiration pursued them and several shouts of “Bravo!” were heard. Ivana’s cheeks flushed crimson.

  “I congratulate you,” said Rouletabille. “You’ve made quite a hit.”

  Roland was seated with his back to the entrance and at that moment the entire assembly turned their eyes to it.

  “Prince Henry and Théodora!” someone remarked.

  Roland could not control his impulse. He turned round bolt upright. A party was entering the room. At their head marched Théodora chatting with a young member of the Prince’s suite. Then came the Prince and a few other persons.

  The courtesan advanced like a queen. Every eye was fixed upon her. A moment before, Ivana’s graceful dancing had aroused murmurs of pleasure. Now there was silence, a mute admiration of this beauty, this wondrous beauty. She was tall and held herself erect in the heavy brocade of a steel-blue dress slashed with arabesques of gold. Her bust was displayed with marvellous daring and was set off by rich gold and ruby ‘embroidery. And the gold was extended and mingled in the flesh, blending with the uncommon shoulder straps which held in place the little material — the precious little material — which formed her bodice. She wore blue silk stockings and golden shoes with scarlet heels. One of her ankles was encircled with a slave bangle in the shape of a serpent, which twisted its diamond head and ruby eyes to this haughty queen as she swept along.

  Théodora Luigi had fleshy lips, eyes far apart, a straight nose, and the full and impassive face of a deer. Her appearance was extremely aristocratic. Her hair, which was drawn back from her white forehead, was confined within a net studded with pearls. Pearls were all about her. They hung from her ears and lay upon her breast and over her robe.

  Roland resumed his earlier position, but while continuing to turn his back to her, no longer saw anyone but Theodora. Ivana broke the silence, and uttered some commonplace about the Prince. Roland did not hear her. Rouletabille drew my attention to his hand which held a dessert knife and was shaking.

  The orchestra began to play a one-step. Roland stood up like a man coming to himself after a dream, and took Ivana’s hand.

  “Come along,” he said.

  Ivana rose to her feet, glad from all appearance that he could think of dancing again with her while the other woman was present.

  They danced together, and Théodora danced with the young attaché.

  Prince Henry went for a turn in the gaming-room with one of his companions. He was a man of some forty years, bowed down already, more by excess it seemed to me than by the misfortunes of his country. He was said to have lived a dissolute life and to suffer from neurasthenia.

  I let my gaze stray once more to Roland Boulenger. While continuing to dance with Ivana he no longer spoke to her, and had no eyes for anyone but Théodora. As she passed him she smiled and beckoned to him. Ivana suddenly felt tired, and Roland led her back to her seat. She was a little pale and bit her under-lip.

  The Professor remained standing, and Théodora as she passed him gave up her partner and held out her arms to him. He could not resist her. He did not even give it a thought. And they became absorbed in themselves. They chatted and laughed without intermission as they mechanically followed the movements of this insidious dance.

  When the music ceased Roland led Théodora back to her table and returned to us.

  “Don’t tell my wife about it,” he said. “It’s quite unnecessary to upset her.”

  He was beaming.

  “Above all we won’t mention it to the Prince,” said Ivana with a laugh.

  At that moment the Prince returned.

  “If you are really tired we may as well go home,” said Roland.

  “Yes, certainly,” returned Ivana. “We’ve nothing more to do here.”

  She was on her feet. She threw another glance at Théodora and added, “There’s no doubt about that.”

  “There’s no doubt about what?” questioned Roland.

  “Nothing. I was thinking about tuberculosis in ‘ducks.’”

  And as Ivana while speaking slipped her arm in Rouletabille’s, he was not slow to laugh at his wife’s retort.

  When we arrived at the villa and Roland had shut himself up in his room Thérèse made her appearance. The poor thing’s face was distraught.

  “Well?” she questioned.

  “Well, my dear,” returned Ivana, “I’ve done my utmost, I assure you. You may ask my husband and Sainclair if it is not true. But I must give it up.... It is better that I should tell you at once for you would know it to-morrow. He danced with Theodora Luigi. Nothing but an immediate flight can save him. Take him away without delay. Set out to-morrow for that trip through Brittany.”

  “Are you going to leave me in the lurch? exclaimed Thérèse. “Are you going to desert me?”

  “Yes. Your husband is going clean off his head. He has never been accustomed to meet with resistance from anyone.”

  Madame Boulenger stood up and left us without another word, dazed with grief.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE TRAGEDY

  NEXT MORNING I found my Rouletabille as he used to be in his happiest days. I was once more admiring his gaiety, his lightness of heart, his delight in life. There was no call to “talk” to Ivana. The attitude which she at last adopted on her own initiative, the determination which she expressed the evening before to abandon the dangerous game which Thérèse had persuaded her to play, rendered any discussion unnecessary. And Rouletabille gained greatly from the circumstances; in other words his wonderful patience and confidence as a husband found its reward as though he had not reached the end of his endurance. Chance served him well.

  At Madame Boulenger’s request we did not at once leave The Thatches. For that matter after the scene at the ball which had witnessed Théodora’s triumph, a precipitate departure would have made Ivana look somewhat ridiculous; and then there was no longer the shadow of a reason for it. Roland Boulenger was not at all interested in Ivana.

  He was often away from the house. Thérèse’s torment was painful to see. She did not even attempt to refer again to the visit to Brittany. She knew that it would be utterly futile.

  One afternoon — Roland had left us at an early hour — she kept us with her to tell us of her long agony. Roland and Théodora, it would seem, were meeting in secret in a villa at St. Adresse. She was watching her husband’s movements, and having Théodora and even the Prince kept under observation.

  “Because the greatest danger at the present time comes from that quarter,” she went on. “I know that the Prince is frightfully jealous, and makes terrible scenes with her; and Roland’s name often comes up between them. Good gracious, if he should happen to catch them together!”

  “But if he is jealous how does she manage to meet Roland?” I asked.

  “The Prince is indisposed. He suddenly fell ill.”

  “Oh he had already pretty well broken down.”

  “Through the numerous drugs which she makes him take,” returned Thérèse. “She must have given him something new so as to keep him to his bed and not spoil her schemes. A woman like that will stick at nothing. In short he never leaves his room at the Hôtel Frascati, but she — she goes out!

  “Aren’t they still in Deauville? I thought they were staying at the Royal.”

  “She persuaded him to leave Deauville. As a matter of fact she can make him do anything she pleases. She began to feel ill at ease here, you understand. She couldn’t take a step without every eye being upon her.... Finally Roland himself from a last flickering gleam of decency must have given her to understand that here — well here, I was to be reckoned with. At least I hope so. Yes, I hope that he left the place because he was thinking of me. Still I am not absolutely certain about it.... But to return to the Prince. She left him yesterday at three o’clock. At four o’clock the Prince dressed to go out, but he was seized with an attack of weak
ness and had to be put to bed again. That’s the condition in which my poor Roland will find himself before the end of a couple of months, if he is not wrenched from the claws of this woman.”

  “If it were my affair I should kill her,” said Ivana with composure.

  I studied her. There was a gloomy look in her eyes, and her face was ice-cold. It was as though she had actually killed and was staring before her at her prostrate rival.

  “Kill her,” cried Thérèse. “Do you suppose that I haven’t thought of that?”

  “Well, then, what’s to prevent you?” returned Ivana in an expressionless voice.

  “You would be acquitted. Wouldn’t she, Sainclair?”

  “I should think so,” I returned, “but killing people causes a great deal of worry, not forgetting that I know nothing of juries in this part of the world, and after all we can never be certain of anything. Between ourselves, I think it would be much better to discover some other method of solving the difficulty.”

  “I shan’t kill her,” said Thérèse, “because he would never forgive me. He still loves me a little. I don’t want him to hate me.”

  “What will you do?” asked Ivana, growing more and more gloomy.

  “I shall keep watch,” sighed the unhappy woman.

  She left us. Ivana hurried after her, and soon we could hear them mingling their tears.

  Rouletabille and I made our way into the garden. We gazed at the open windows of the study in which no one now entered.

  “Poor woman!” said Rouletabille. “We can’t, of course, leave her, and yet I’m longing to clear off.”

  “Well, not more than I am.”

  “Oh, you. I won’t allow you to go without us.”

  Ivana came out to us. She was wiping her eyes.

  “It’s awful,” she said, “Roland is done for. If you only knew what Thérèse has been telling me. She managed to bribe the woman who looks after the villa at St. Adresse. This woman goes to the villa every morning to do a certain amount of housework, consisting in particular of ventilating the place, opening the windows and shutting them again ready for the afternoon, which is the one time during the day when she must never make an appearance. This woman, who is the widow of a boatswain and knows all about opium, told Thérèse that an inordinate consumption of opium went on there; that one morning she found Theodora unconscious, lying on the cushions with the different appliances used by an opium smoker beside her; that everything was in indescribable disorder round her, showing that a struggle had taken place. Apparently she had tried to keep Roland with her against his will. Thérèse reckons that this would fit in with the evening when Roland returned home with a deadly look on his face — we ourselves did not see him — and shut himself up in his bedroom. Next morning his valet found him lying on his bed fully dressed. These are details which the poor thing has kept from us until now. For my sake and for Thérèse’s sake Roland is still struggling on the edge of the abyss to which that woman wishes to lure him.... Thérèse also admitted certain things to me which she would be ashamed to lay bare to you and Sainclair — her whole miserable story. She again went down on her knees to Roland, but this time he swept her aside, telling her not to trouble herself as it was a passing mood and ‘she must not interfere.’ He was very brusque with her it seems.”

  “And she thinks that he still loves her a little,” I interrupted.

  “That’s exactly what I said to her. Her reply was: ‘If he did not love me at all he would have gone away with her. It is for my sake that he is showing fight.’ Those were her very words, and I am not inventing anything,” ended Ivana.

  “Did he ever love her?” I asked.

  “Yes,” returned Ivana, “as one loves a saint. With a temperament like his, Roland must have soon got tired of her.”

  “Perhaps it was her own fault,” I suggested. “She asks the question and upbraids herself. I feel very sorry for her.”

  “When did she go down on her knees to him?” asked Rouletabille, who so far had remained silent.

  “Last night. We were still at the Casino.”

  “No, we were home,” he made answer. “You had already gone to bed. Sainclair and I were finishing our cigars in the garden; then we left each other to go to our rooms. In the angle of the passage Madame Boulenger passed me as though she were demented. She had left her husband’s room and was going to her own. She was in a state of pitiable disorder, her hair hung down unconfined over her shoulders, and her splendid dressing-gown was open at the throat...

  “Yes!... Well, he had just told her to leave the room.”

  “Poor thing,” I said. “She made herself beautiful for the occasion. Have you noticed that during the last few days she has been using an extravagant amount of scent?”

  “It’s pathetic, returned Rouletabille.

  “How is it that you didn’t tell me anything about meeting Thérèse in the passage?” asked Ivana.

  “Because I was hearing her story all day long, and when I was alone with you I was only too glad to forget Thérèse and Théodora Luigi; and even Roland Boulenger.”

  Rouletabille spoke in such decisive tones that Ivana and I were for a moment taken aback.

  “Is that a reproach?” said Ivana, in a calm though slightly trembling voice. “Good gracious,” she added as she left us, “how selfish and unjust men are!”

  Rouletabille tried to call her back, but she shook her head and continued to walk away. “No,” she said, “I understand.”

  Events followed close upon one another. One day Thérèse informed us that the Prince had left his hotel with his secretary for a drive to St. Adresse, but had to be brought back almost immediately because his strength had failed him. When Théodora Luigi returned to the Hôtel Frascati she reproved him sharply for his folly. The doctors sided with her. He promised to be more sensible in future.

  “This drive to St. Adresse makes it quite clear that he was looking for them. He must know all about them. We shall hear of some terrible disaster,” Thérèse said.

  She covered her face with her hands.

  “But you must warn Roland,” I interposed.

  “I am relying on you, Sainclair,” she returned. She dared not appeal to Rouletabille, and since the little scene of the other day, Ivana seemed to have retired within herself, letting us talk and taking very little part in our discussions. “Warn him,” went on Thérèse. “I can’t do so without admitting that I’ve been spying on him, which would make him furious.”

  That same evening I had a short interview with Roland. I exercised the utmost care in broaching the subject. He smiled and thanked me, and asked me how I came to be aware of all the circumstances. I told him that people at the Casino were very much interested in Prince Henry and Théodora Luigi and I had overheard certain remarks.

  “It’s my wife who told you this,” he returned with a smile. “I know she is having us watched.”

  “You can’t blame her. She lives in terror of some catastrophe happening.”

  “Dear Thérèse!” he returned. “Reassure her, and say that her troubles will soon be over. I have already told her so several times, but she won’t believe me. The Prince is getting better, and I am very delighted that it is so. I shall be glad to see both of them leave the place, which will be very soon now.”

  “Have I your permission to repeat to your wife what you say? She will be delighted.”

  “Why of course, but she won’t believe you. She is as stubborn as a mule is dear Thérèse.”

  “She is utterly wrapped up in you,” I returned. “Do be careful. If anything happened to you it would kill her.”

  “I feel sure of that,” he said. “I promise you that I will be careful for her sake — and my own! Hang it all, I’m not tired of life yet.” He was right. Madame Boulenger gave me a sad smile when I repeated his words to her. She no longer believed in his promises. Nevertheless next day she saw that he was sufficiently prudent not to return to Havre. He remained with us nearly the whole day, and
displayed a sprightliness which reminded us of former times. He teased Ivana, who was somewhat cross with him, which appeared unduly to surprise him.

  “Aren’t we friends any more?” he asked.

  “I will answer that question when we take up our work again,” she returned.

  “Well, let’s make it up here and now, and we’ll set to work again to-morrow morning after a good ride following our usual plan. Does that suit you?”

  “If you only meant what you say!” exclaimed Ivana, whose cheeks had turned crimson.

  Thérèse, on the other hand, was in a state of excitement. She was so greatly surprised by the course of events that she appeared to be dumbfounded. And yet her misgivings obviously gained the upper hand now and then. When we were alone I spoke a few words to her, but she did not seem to hear me. At one moment her face was beaming and at another she gave way to a new feeling of dejection. The poor woman could scarcely comprehend such good fortune. And occasionally her gaze, which was far away from us, seemed to glimpse the darkest side of things. That day we feared for her reason. At least that was the impression which she produced on us, and I can see even now Ivana taking her burning hands in hers and whispering to her words of comfort and hope.

  Next morning Roland prepared for the ride which he had mentioned. This time Rouletabille constituted himself one of the party. I was glad of his decision to join them. From all appearance he was in no mood to lend himself to a repetition of his past experiences.

  When the three of them returned, a young sailor whose cap bore on it the name Astarte met Roland as he was dismounting and gave him a letter. Roland opened it with a feverish hand and read it. It did not take long. He thrust the letter in his pocket, and ordered the groom to mount one of the horses and follow him. As for himself, he was already in the saddle again, and without saying a word to us rode off at a gallop. The sailor hurried after him in the direction of the harbour.

  Rouletabille, Ivana and I, who had just come down the front door steps, stood for a moment exchanging glances; then lifting our eyes to the window of Thérèse’s room we caught sight of a ghost-like face behind a raised curtain. Poor Thérèse was a terrible sight to see. The curtain dropped.