“Very well,” returned the journalist imperturbably. “ I see that this is a prejudice with you. I won’t dwell upon it. Waiter, bring me a bock.”
And he took a seat.
“He is utterly hopeless,” said Monsieur Bartholasse in a harsh voice.
“You, my friend, had better be careful,” declared Rouletabille, fixing’ him with an icy stare. “You would like to kill me with a look. As for you, Monsieur Crousillat, you are the most sensible man here. After all, if there was half the rage in your heart that is choking Monsieur Bartholasse, you might have greeted my arrival with a blow from those fists with which nature has generously endowed you, and it would have been a question only of writing my epitaph. But speaking generally, physically robust men are good men. Therefore it is for your benefit that I wish to tell this little story....
“Though our business is a useful one, as I undertake to prove to you before the day is over, it is no joke. That’s why when opportunity offers, we try as far as possible to see the humorous side of things. For instance, it is funny when a murder has been committed in a house and the concierge has sworn to give no information to the newspapers, for a journalist to appear with a police pass signed by police-headquarters, to palm himself off as a detective, and to obtain from the doorkeeper particulars which enable him to find the criminal in a place where the police would never have suspected him of setting foot. That happened to me personally, monsieur, and the police who, after all, are easy-going fellows with whom, in most cases, we get on very well, bore me no malice. But there was a high official who made a fuss about it; one of those men to whom the result of an investigation is nothing, but the form of it everything. This man was determined to fall foul of Rouletabille the journalist. We must take it that the latter had access to the powers that be, for the pride of this high official was laid low, and he is now living in the country. Do you like the country, Monsieur Crousillat?...
“Another story: — One day I had to join the Minister of the Navy, who was making a tour of inspection, along the coast, of our torpedo defence. I was late for the naval review, and I found myself refused admittance everywhere. My pass as a journalist was of no avail. As a last resource I sought out the Deputy-Prefect who was about to dress up in full fig. He deputed his valet to see me, and the man received me as if I were a dog at a wedding. He left me in a room and paid no further attention to me. Suddenly I espied on a chair the official uniform which the man had placed there. I slipped into it like a rat in a hole. I jumped into a taxi and drove to the harbour. Ten minutes later I was ushered into the presence of the Minister with all the honours due to my rank!
“What do you think of that? The uniform of a Deputy-Prefect is not less important than the uniform of a gendarme. Well, when he saw me in that rig-out, the Minister, who was a Parisian, or who had become one after he joined the government, entered into the spirit of the joke. But the Deputy-Prefect made the mistake of treating it seriously. He lodged a complaint... a complaint in due form. Well, monsieur, this Deputy-Prefect is still a Deputy-Prefect... Monsieur Crousillat, believe me, a man of your stamp will live to be a Judge of the Court of Appeal.”
Monsieur Crousillat who, as he listened to the first story, began to scratch his head with a preoccupied air, laughed heartily over the second.
“Now then,” said he, “off you go and don’t let me catch you at it again.”
Rouletabille leapt to his feet, looked at his watch, uttered a muffled exclamation: “I shall be late,” and scampered away like a hare.
La Finette at once burst forth into renewed shouts while Monsieur Crousillat roared like a bull:— “At least give us back his uniform!”
CHAPTER XVII
A DRAMATIC INCIDENT
IT WAS A little after half-past two when Rouletabille hurriedly left Monsieur Crousillat, and it was nearly six o’clock when he appeared once more at Lavardens. His diary contains no clue as to the manner in which he spent those three hours, but the young drover’s conversation with the sham La Finette will enable the reader to conjecture that a pair of eyes and ears were present that afternoon at Roche d’Ozoul which obviously were not meant to be there.
Rouletabille was once more, therefore, at Lavardens. He seemed, as usual, in a hurry. He made his way quickly to Viei-Castou-Nou and, darting into the entrance hall, mounted four at a time the stairs leading to the first floor. He encountered a number of persons dressed in mourning, distant relatives of Monsieur de Lavardens who, since the disappearance of Odette, had been keeping an eye on the property, and at length he came upon the woman — the lady’s maid — whom he was seeking. He bundled her into a small study and closed the door so that they might be undisturbed.
Estève could not now meet Rouletabille without trembling like a leaf. She held out her clasped hands to him and said:
“I swear, monsieur, that I’ve told you everything.”
“Look here,” said Rouletabille, as he pressed down her hands. “I’m going to ask you a simple question, but it is of more importance than you can imagine.”
“Good gracious, what is it now?” moaned poor Estève.
“I want you to tell me,” explained Rouletabille, bending over the girl who stared at him with ever-increasing dismay. “I want you to tell me — don’t look at me like that, because my question is a mere nothing — whether Mademoiselle Odette bore any mark on her left shoulder.”
“Mark on her left shoulder!” echoed the lady’s maid opening her eyes in wonder. “Now that’s a nice question!”
“I didn’t ask you for your opinion, but for an answer. Was there any mark on her left shoulder?”
“Certainly not. There was no mark either on her left or right shoulder.”
“Understand what I mean,” persisted Rouletabille. “Some people have what is called a strawberry mark or some birth-mark on the skin. You must often have helped your mistress to undress, and you should have seen it.”
“Certainly I should have seen it. There was no such mark. Her skin was as clear as a mirror.”
“No mark — nothing?”
“Nothing, I tell you.”
“Not even a beauty spot, hang it all?”
“She was beautiful all over, but she had no beauty spot.”
“You’re not deceiving me? Besides, you have no reason to deceive me.”
“What difference does it make to me whether she had a beauty spot or not?”
“Very well,” returned Rouletabille, brooding for a while. “That’s all I want to know,” and he abruptly left her.
“He’s got a beauty spot on the brain,” muttered Estève.
Rouletabille left the house and was making for the town of Lavardens when he caught sight of Jean coming towards Viei-Castou-Nou. He called him, and Jean ran up.
“I was looking for you,” cried Jean. “Do you remember what you told me?”
“What was it?”
“That someone would bring me news of Odette.”
“Oh, yes, I remember something of the sort.” ‘“Just think! I have had a most extraordinary meeting, only a stone’s throw from here. I’ve been keeping near Viei-Castou-Nou as you suggested.”
“What then?”
“Well, I was seated on a road-side bank thinking of what you said, and feeling very depressed in spite of your optimism; and I was wondering how it was that you could speak with such self-assurance of a matter which seemed to become more and more puzzling and mysterious — so many persons were leagued against us though I could not imagine why — when I saw a little girl in tafters, undoubtedly a little gipsy girl, carrying a few baskets and a bundle of osier twigs. She glanced round her as if she wished to make certain that no one was watching her, and then leaning towards me said: “‘Are you Monsieur Jean?’
“‘Yes, what do you want with me?’ I returned.
“She answered by asking me another question:
“‘Would you like to have news of the young lady?’ “You can imagine the effect which her words had on me,
particularly after what you told me.
“‘Why of course,’ I said, ‘I should be very pleased.’
“She gazed round her once more.
“‘Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me, or they’ll kill me.’
“I assured her that she need have no fear.
“‘Well,’ she said in a whisper. ‘There’s someone who can tell you. Go to...’”
“Go to Roseaux plain at seven o’clock,” broke in Rouletabille.
“What! Do you know about it?” cried Jean astounded.
“Ought I not to know everything?”
“She walked away telling me that it would be well to go to the place alone, otherwise I shouldn’t see anyone.”
“I quite believe it.”
“As you knew that this appointment would be made for me, I suppose you’ve come along here to go with me?”
“Not a bit of it! I don’t want you to miss your appointment. You must go alone. Off you go — alone.”
“Have you any suggestions to make?”
“None.... One moment, I suggest that you do not lose a single word of what may be said. Good-bye, Jean, and good luck.”
Jean looked at his watch.
“I’ll be off,” he said. “Roseaux plain is some distance from here and I intend to go on foot to avoid attracting any attention.”
“Well, go and good luck. While you are away I shan’t be wasting time, I promise you.”
“Shall we meet again at Viei-Castou-Nou?”
“Get on with it, chatterer! Aren’t you longing to know where Odette is?”
Jean left him. Rouletabille took the road in an opposite direction. He seemed somewhat lost in thought when on passing a café in Lavardens, he was attracted by the sound of voices, the voices of the examining magistrate and his clerk in conversation with the owner. Rouletabille bent forward and his eyes fell on the gendarmes seated under an awning at the far end of the café with a bottle before them. La Finette was telling the story how that low-down journalist had sent back his tunic and cap with his best thanks:” Well, the first time I lay hands on him I’ll give him ‘best thanks.’”
Rouletabille noticed also Monsieur Crousillat’s bicycle on the pavement. The sight of it seemed straightway to determine his course of action. He walked up to the “bike,” mounted it, and making no attempt at concealment started off at a good speed just as Monsieur Crousillat came out of the café to sit down on the open front.
“My bicycle!” roared the examining magistrate.
“Ah, this time he’s going to far!”
He called the gendarmes who also had bicycles, and they started to give chase to Rouletabille, shouting at the top of their voices. Rouletabille turned round and beckoning them in the friendliest way to follow him, amused himself by slackening his speed when he was too far ahead. In short, he seemed to take a special pleasure in the uncommon sight of a spreading procession of gendarmes yelping and gesticulating like madness. La Finette, of course, was the most excited of them all.
“This time he shan’t escape me,” he cried.
Rouletabille kissed his hand to him.
On the stroke of seven o’clock Jean reached Roseaux plain. It was one of those pieces of ground — if the name ground can be given to soil which was not unfrequently shifting, and when least expected sank beneath your feet — between the river and its dikes, which are all the more perilous at that season, inasmuch as they are covered with greenery, like respectable pasture lands, and lure the wayfarer by their lustre and bloom. The plain was girt with tall reeds whose stems were embedded in the marshes.
The spot was not likely to cause Jean any apprehension for he was familiar with Camargue in all its beauty, and with the treachery which lay concealed beneath its beauty. Moreover his mind was concentrated on the phrase “news of Odette.”
The first thing that met his eyes was the little gipsy girl, who, after a friendly nod, disappeared from view, and he did not give her another thought. He continued to go forward. A dead silence enveloped him, and the solitude was beginning to tell upon him when suddenly the reeds in front of him were thrust aside and from behind the screen emerged the form of a gipsy whom at first he did not recognize. Then she drew nearer and fixed him with her blazing eyes.
“Callista!” he cried, instinctively starting back. “You in that dress!”
“Yes,” she returned in a tone of defiance. “Why should you be surprised? Am I not a Romany? Though I had forgotten it, you did your best to remind me of it. You took me from the road, and I am back to it again since you turned me adrift.... But before we part I wanted to see you for the last time, my love.”
And she burst into a fit of wild laughter.
Jean was in the presence of a being who was a stranger to him and whose nature he had never suspected. The Callista of old had been easy-going or affectionate or sulky and sometimes artlessly proud like a spoilt child. And now standing before him was the embodiment of hate. He had no call to look at her a second time to comprehend that she was the cause of all his misfortunes. And his heart was filled with a savage resentment. He seized, her by the wrist with a violence that made her cry out.
“Odette? What have you done with Odette?” he shouted.
She writhed in his grip, but continued her mocking laugh.
“Odette!” she echoed. “What’s this Odette? Who’s seen Odette? Are you looking for Odette?”
Jean was more incensed by her ridicule than he would have been by her insults, and it seemed as if he would shake the life out of her. Then, foaming with passion, she cried:
“Well, yes, it’s true. Your Odette — I took her away from you. And you will never see her again — never, never, never!”
The word “never,” as she shouted it at him, seemed to stab him like a knife. Jean was silent and they continued to struggle. Suddenly he staggered and slipped on his knees. It seemed as if some wild beast, some lion had leapt on to his shoulders, for as he collapsed under the impact a kind of growl broke out behind him.
Callista now stood silent while Jean and Andréa, locked in a deadly embrace, seemed to be choking the life out of each other. As they fought they drew nearer the shining surface of the water which shimmered between the tall reeds. The two men rolled towards it, each bent on forcing his adversary into its depths. Callista, panting for breath, was leaning over them. Jean was being worsted in the fight. At the moment when he was about to be hurled into the water Callista uttered a cry, and it would have been difficult to say whether it was a shout of triumph or of anguish.
And then when all was about to culminate in a tragic climax, the scene changed. A new actor appeared on the stage. It was Rouletabille. He gave a shrill whistle and a small body of gendarmes came rushing up, and throwing themselves on Andréa and Callista, made them prisoners.
The two gipsies were so entirely taken by surprise that they allowed themselves to be handcuffed without protest.
“I think it was about time for me to come, what?” said Rouletabille.
“You always come at the right moment,” returned Jean, embracing him.
CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH MONSIEUR CROUSILLAT DISCOVERS THAT
JOURNALISTS SOMETIMES “HAVE GOOD QUALITIES”
MONSIEUR CROUSILLAT returned puffing and perspiring to Arles on foot in a state of mind that may easily be imagined. Monsieur Bartholasse, his clerk, had scored he had not forgiven his chief for his forbearance towards Rouletabille.
“You never gain anything by sparing a man of that kidney,” he said. “Give him an inch and he’ll take an ell. The joker’s always making fools of us. He began by going off with a gendarme’s uniform and you’ll see what the end will be.”
As the reader knows, the end was that Rouletabille rode off with the examining magistrate’s bicycle.
“I’ll have him put under lock and key,” declared Monsieur Crousillat.
“You say that now, but he’ll get round you again with his humbug.”
&nb
sp; When Monsieur Crousillat reached the Law Courts, to which he had repaired for his official papers, so that he might continue his work on them at home in the evening, for the case kept him on the alert night and day, the first thing that met his gaze was his bicycle propped up against the porter’s lodge. He could scarcely believe his own eyes.
“It’s yours right enough,” said Monsieur Bartholasse.
“Who brought this bicycle here?” asked Monsieur Crousillat. —
“Monsieur Rouletabille brought it only a moment ago,” returned the porter. “He told me that you lent it to him, and said I was to be sure and take great care of it. He asked me also to say that he was coming back himself to thank you for it.”
“The farce continues,” muttered Monsieur Bartholasse with a titter, which increased the examining magistrate’s exasperation. “Oh, we haven’t done with him yet.”
Raging within himself. Monsieur Crousillat hurriedly mounted the stairs to his office. Monsieur Bartholasse had some difficulty in keeping pace with him.
“Whew!” breathed the clerk. “We’re better off here than in a café, anyway.”
“Do you say that for my benefit, Monsieur Bartholasse?”
“No, Monsieur Crousillat, for the benefit of Rouletabille, who has led us a pretty dance.”
Just then the office messenger announced Monsieur Rouletabille. The two men gave a start.
“Show him in,” ordered Monsieur Crousillat in a threatening voice.
“Monsieur Rouletabille is not alone.”
Rouletabille made his appearance.
“Ah, so there you are!”
“Yes, here we are. I am very pleased to see you here, as I know that this is your dinner hour.”
“I’ve had enough of your humbug,” returned the examining magistrate, who in his wrath not only used his clerk’s words, but pronounced them with his accent.
“I am going to teach you that it’s an expensive matter to play tricks on magistrates.”
“I, play tricks on magistrates!” broke in Rouletabille, with his most frank and open look.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 111
