Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “She was absolutely light,” I exclaimed.

  We could not doubt that on receiving word from Theodora, Roland had set out to rejoin her without a moment’s hesitation. We were quite sure of it because we knew that it was by using the motor-launch belonging to the yacht As tarte, which was moored at Havre, that he had travelled to and from St. Adresse nearly every day.

  We remained standing where we were in a state of amazement when Thérèse appeared on the steps. She wore the tragic look of sorrow which Guido Reni has portrayed in his Mater Dolorosa — the lips slightly apart unable to sob, and the ice-cold eyes unable to shed tears.

  She did not speak, and we were at a loss what to say to her. She was wrapped up in a dark cloak and wore a toque. Obviously she was going to St. Adresse to “keep watch” again. She made for the garage and ordered the car. She surprised us by her confident bearing, this woman whose face had been contorted with anguish.

  She came back to us quite self-possessed.

  “I’m in no hurry,” she said in a calm voice. “I’ve plenty of time. I haven’t a motor-launch at my command so I shall take the boat like other people.”

  She opened her wrist-bag and drew from it one of those small cards which contain a timetable of the tides and the departures of the steamers.

  “It’s as I thought. I still have twenty minutes,” she said.

  The car drew up in front of us. She stepped into it after giving us a nod. Ivana ran to kiss her, and we heard her ask if she should go with her. But Thérèse thanked her somewhat coldly and shut the car door.

  “It’s a crime to let her go off like that,” said Ivana after the car had driven away. “She is as cold as a statue. Her strength will suddenly give way. Her heart will cease to beat. That’s the impression which she makes upon me. The whole thing is too awful.”

  “Too awful,” echoed Rouletabille, “but it is an absolute proof that we can’t do anything. You can’t want to go ‘spying’ with her, listening behind doors, counting the minutes while those ill-balanced lovers are together. We can pity her and that’s as much as we can do.”

  “Oh yes, I pity her, pity her from the bottom of my heart,” murmured Ivana.

  “That’s what comes of marrying a man of genius,” growled Rouletabille, who seemed hateful to me at that moment.

  Ivana looked at him out of her dark eyes bedewed with tears.

  “Oh, you forget all that I suffered for your sake.”

  Tears sprang to his eyes now, and I whispered as I took them both by the arm.

  “How cam you say such things if you love each other?”

  “Sainclair has suffered more than any of us, but he is the best of the lot,” Rouletabille said.

  “Oh, I don’t count,” I returned. “Mine was simply a commonplace divorce case.”

  “Yes, and if you were sorry for yourself it was in the privacy of your own chambers. You are more magnanimous than any of us, Sainclair. Let’s lunch at the Normanby.”

  The lunch was not a very gay one as may be imagined. Ivana betrayed a certain anxiety and kept on repeating: “I ought not to have let her go alone,” which exasperated Rouletabille. While we were having coffee we could not ignore young Ramel of Dramatica, who was moving from one table to another, shaking hands and collecting scandal from his friends.

  “How goes tuberculosis in fowls?” he asked.

  I at first thought that Rouletabille was about to box his ears, but Ramel went on without waiting for a reply:

  “Have you heard the latest? Prince Henry has gone mad. He will probably have to be put in an asylum. At all events, he is leaving us, or rather his Théodora is carrying him off no one knows where. His departure from the Hôtel Frascati is fixed for to-morrow.”

  With that he passed on.

  “That explains matters,” I said. “Clearly there is nothing to be alarmed about — far from it. Roland must have received word from Theodora of their sudden flight this morning and left us to say a last good-bye.”

  “Very likely,” agreed Rouletabille.

  After lunch Ivana, who had scarcely spoken except to repeat the refrain: “I ought not to have let her go alone,” left us on some pretext or other. Rouletabille and I went into the country for a breath of fresh air and we returned about five o’clock. As we passed La Potinière we were surprised to observe the excitement which prevailed among the people there.

  As soon as we were seen several persons rose and came up to us. They assumed that we were aware of the frightful event which had occurred, and we had some difficulty in unravelling the details which were causing so much commotion. The news of the tragedy had come to the Comte de Mornac by telephone message from Havre and these were the facts we learnt:

  Prince Henry of Albania after attempting to get at Roland Boulenger and Théodora Luigi in a villa at St. Adresse, shot down Madame Boulenger who happened to be near, and rushed forward to block the way. Afterwards he threw himself over the cliff. His body was taken to an out-building of the Hôtel Frascati. It was not known whether Madame Boulenger was alive or dead.

  I will spare the reader the many comments and foolish things which were uttered by persons seated at the tables. There was still one steamer for Havre, the last for the day, but we should have to hurry for it. We scrambled into a cab and just managed to catch it. We barely seized the opportunity of leaving word for Ivana, by one of Boulenger’s friends whom we chanced to meet, explaining the circumstances and the reason for our departure.

  “What a blow to Ivana!” exclaimed Rouletabille in a trembling voice. “It’s amazing what poor creatures we men are compared with women. They feel, they foresee, they realize by their wonderful intuition what the future, which is obscure to the shrewdest and cleverest among us, will bring forth. Ivana’s excitement seemed in our eyes unnatural, not to say absurd. She had already divined what we have just learnt, but what to our limited mathematical intelligence, which confines everything within rigid formulae, was only a conception of the future, of no value or next to no value, for it was merely a woman’s idea!”

  On the boat we encountered young Ramel of Dramatica, who was on his way to Havre for the entirely straightforward purpose of collecting material for a sensational article. He told us that the tragedy did not come as a surprise to anyone, and no one was more prepared for it than the victim herself.

  He further confided to us that a little while previously when the affair became known at La Potinière, the Comte de Mornac gave him a letter to read which he had received from his old friend Madame de Lens, an intimate friend of Thérèse’s, to whom the latter had written two days before stating that she expected the worst to happen. Madame de Lens added that she could not say more in a letter, and, moreover, she trusted that Thérèse was mistaken and her terrible prognostications would not be realized.

  I personally attached no importance to this conversation with young Ramel, but it will be seen later that Rouletabille was to remember it.

  Ramel did not wish to leave us when we got to Havre, and Rouletabille had to make him understand that what had brought him was his friendly interest in the Boulengers, whose guest he was, and consequently he would thank Ramel to conduct his journalistic inquiries entirely apart from him.

  We had the good fortune to find a taxi, and getting rid of Ramel told the chauffeur to drive at top speed to St. Adresse.

  We had to alight before we came to the Villa Fleurie — for such the house was called — because it was in the hands of the police. A great crowd of people were gathered in the street.

  We suddenly found ourselves on the top of the cliff outside St. Adresse standing before a low one-storeyed cottage which was occupied — we discovered this a few minutes later — by the woman who looked after the villa and of whom Thérèse had spoken to Ivana. This woman concealed Thérèse at her cottage when the poor thing came to Havre. From that position she was able to keep an eye on the Villa Fleurie whose deserted appearance and shuttered windows we could see. What terrible hours Madame Boule
nger must have spent behind the short white curtains of this cottage watching those walls within which were lurking love and death! —

  We elbowed our way through the crowd. Rouletabille had the good luck to come across Detective-Inspector Tamar, from Paris, who recognized him and facilitated our movements. We were in no way surprised to observe a representative of the Paris police already on the spot. Besides, it struck me that I had seen his face in the Casino at Deauville on the evening when Théodora Luigi made her appearance with Prince Henry. That was a detail which later on was to possess some importance, but as may be imagined we had but one longing, one object, one anxiety — to learn whether Thérèse was still alive; but the detective was no wiser than we were. He had come from the Hôtel Frascati after superintending the removal of the Prince’s body.

  We entered the villa with him, and the first person whom our eyes encountered crossing a corridor was — Ivana!

  As soon as she saw us she stopped. Her face was very beautiful in its expression of sorrow.

  “Well, my dear, what did I tell you,” she said in a low, distressed voice.

  “Is she alive or dead?”

  “She is alive, and Roland will save her. We may now confidently hope so.”

  “Thank God,” I said. “Can we see her?”

  “I think she will be glad to see you. She is worrying about you. You shall go to her, but come away almost immediately. Don’t endeavour to make her talk.”

  “One moment,” said Rouletabille. “When and where was she shot? How was she wounded?”

  “First let’s go and see her,” I interrupted with some impatience.

  “We will see her presently,” said Rouletabille in a cold, calm voice.

  Ivana knew her Rouletabille. She was aware that when he adopted that particular tone she must let him have his own way.

  “She was hit by two bullets,” she went on. “The first entered on a level with the heart and luckily struck the breast-bone, glanced aside, and taking an upward direction came out near the collar-bone. The second bullet entered the breast above the liver, but Roland thinks he can promise that there is no lesion of any important organ. He at once proceeded to extract the bullet. Thérèse stood the operation with great courage, and it was performed without any complication supervening. You will see that nothing is lost. Now I will tell you what is known about the assault—”

  “Did you catch the three o’clock boat?” Rouletabille interrupted bluntly.

  “Yes, please don’t scold me. I felt certain that something would happen to-day. I had a presentiment which I could not resist. I didn’t say anything when I left you, but I made up my mind to go to Havre this afternoon. Unfortunately when I arrived it was too late.”

  “Too late for what?” questioned Rouletabille, who had turned as white as a sheet.

  “Why, to interpose between poor Thérèse and that brute.”

  “He would have shot both of you. Thank heaven you were too late.”

  “Why didn’t I go with her this morning?” went on Ivana without a pause, regardless of Rouletabille’s suggestion that she too might have become a victim.

  “How is it you came here direct? Do you know this place?”

  “Oh, I had no difficulty in finding my way from Thérèse’s description of it. And then,” she added after a moment’s hesitation, “I may as well admit now that on one occasion I came here and hid myself in the house opposite without saying anything to a soul — not even to Thérèse.”

  “It’s rather strange that you should do that,” said Rouletabille in a strained voice. “You did well not to mention it to me, for I should have seriously disapproved of it.”

  She gave him a penetrating glance; and we entered a small room which overlooked an inner yard. When she had closed the door she said:

  “Of course I ought not to have done it, but I was becoming increasingly worried about Thérèse and I heard things about Prince Henry which terrified me.”

  “You, too, wanted to save Roland?”

  “Quite possibly, but I really believe that I was guided by the thought of Thérèse’s unhappiness more than anything else,” she returned in a voice of extreme sadness. “I wanted to have a talk with the caretaker who, I thought, knew everything. She might tell me things which would be useful for us to know, but I could get nothing out of her. If she knows anything Thérèse must have paid her well to hold her tongue.... And then I dare say she was speaking the truth. She does housework at various places in the town and is very seldom at home. Thérèse possessed a key and went in and out of the cottage as she pleased. In fact this woman, Madame Merlin, was away at the time the affair happened, and could not give me any information.”

  “How did you learn the details?”

  “Why, from Roland, who told me the entire story, and also through a local policeman who happened to be on the spot. Besides, Thérèse was able to speak a few words which made things clear. Roland said that he was in a room on the ground floor with Théodora Luigi when they heard the sound of shouting outside; but he did not at first recognize his wife’s voice, and then there was a distinct cry near at hand: ‘Murder! Roland! Roland!’ This time he recognized Thérèse’s voice. He was not surprised that she had followed him to the villa, for he knew how alarmed she was about him, and also what she was capable of doing to save him. At the same time when Théodora admitted that the Prince’s valet had missed his master from his room that morning, and no one knew what had become of him, he felt convinced that his wife was face to face with the madman. Nor did Théodora entertain any doubt about it either; but though they were struck by the same idea they acted in entirely different ways. Roland made a dash for the front door, while Théodora clung to him with all her strength. However, he roughly shook her off, and opening the door saw Thérèse lying at full length across the doorway.”

  “Poor thing. She would have sacrificed her life for them,” I cried.

  “Thérèse is a woman who knows how to love,” said Ivana in an intense voice. “I could not do it. I could take a person’s life, but I couldn’t give my own. Roland has sworn to save her and to devote himself to her in future. He may well do so.”

  “Tell me about the policeman,” said Rouletabille in peremptory tones, for he had no liking for these sentimental digressions.

  “He very nearly saved Thérèse from that madman. When Roland opened the door a local policeman in plain clothes, a man named Michel, was already stooping over Thérèse. This policeman was keeping watch on the villa. He was employed and paid by Théodora, who had reason to fear the worst from the Prince, but did not wish to go away without seeing Roland again. Roland confessed to me that this woman’s passion for him was increasing in proportion as his own was decreasing, for she noticed that he was getting tired of her. In fact, Roland had had enough of her; and it was only his fear lest she should give way to some desperate deed if he did not keep the last appointment, which she made before her departure, that induced him to leave us this morning so precipitately.”

  “He told you that!” interposed Rouletabille with emphasis. “But that’s a different idea altogether.... To return to the policeman. Did not Michel see the Prince coming?”

  “No, unfortunately, but there’s nothing surprising in that. Michel was walking round the house, which stands alone in its own grounds, as you have seen for yourselves. It was while he was at the back, that the Prince darted from a clump of gorse some two hundred feet from here on the left. The Prince evidently knew that Roland and Théodora were alone in the house. Someone must have told him, and he was hastening to take them by surprise after waiting, of course, until the policeman’s back was turned. We may assume that he had obtained in some way the means of getting into the place. Possibly in his excitement he yielded to a sudden impulse to rush headlong into the house which hid from him his mistress’s infidelity. One thing is certain, unfortunately — a terrible longing to shoot someone took possession of him. As ill-luck would have it, Thérèse, who had just come up, s
aw the Prince emerge from the gorse and run to the house. She dashed forward to meet him, held on to him, and shouted, and the Prince in his furious passion fired his revolver. You will readily understand that Thérèse did not even attempt to defend herself. You know the sort of woman she is. She must have felt a supreme joy in being shot down like that, and though she raised an outcry it was not on her own account, you may be sure, but to warn Roland of the danger to which he was exposed.”

  “The tragedy of it!” I murmured.

  “What happened then?”

  “The policeman ran forward when he heard the first shot,” went on Ivana. “He was coming round the side of the house when the second shot rang out, for a certain time elapsed between the two shots, and he arrived just in time to see Thérèse fall in an inert mass outside the door. Meanwhile, the Prince, after shooting Thérèse, seems to have realized the horror of his deed and thrown his revolver away.”

  “Who picked it up?”

  “The policeman.”

  “What sort of revolver was it?”

  “It was a small but reliable pocket revolver of a well-known pattern. The Prince after throwing it away made his escape by skirting the side of the villa, his intention being, in all probability, not to hide himself but the more quickly to put an end to his torments by throwing himself over the cliff. As the policeman did not see the Prince, he at first devoted his attention to Thérèse, who was bleeding from her wounds and had almost fallen into his arms. It was at this moment that the door opened and Roland and Théodora appeared. You can picture the scene. Roland at first seemed to lose his head. However, when he found that Thérèse was still breathing he recovered his self-possession, himself carried her indoors and placed her on a sofa, and ordered Théodora, who was watching his movements as though she were in a dream, to leave the house and not to return as long as he was there.”