Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  Olajaï had a foreboding that his “goose was cooked” now that Rouletabille’s presence in the vicinity had become known, and his chief concern was to escape the evil fate in store for him. It may have been, indeed, that he was on his way to warn Rouletabille.

  “Rush after him! Take the path to the inn,” shouted Callista.

  She conducted the chase with amazing strategy, surrounding the wretched man, compelling him to flee from thicket to thicket like a hunted animal, and finally to rush headlong into the arms of Andréa, who lay in wait for him behind a tree.

  Andréa gripped and crushed him in his powerful arms as though to choke the life out of him, dragged him back to the camp a human wreck, scarcely able to breathe, more dead than alive; and, flinging him among the gipsies, exclaimed:

  I make you a present of him. Do with him as you please. He is a traitor. Had he not betrayed us, we should not be in our present plight. He is the cause of our troubles. If they rob us of our queen one day, it will be his doing.”

  A kind of roar burst forth round Olajaï, who raised himself, and, attempting to stand on his feet, drew himself up with a look of unspeakable terror. A stab in the back with a dagger felled him to the ground.

  Odette, with ever-increasing excitement, watched the occurrence from her caravan and uttered a shriek of horror. At that moment the door of her prison opened and Andréa flung himself on her, threw a rug round her, and carried her off as though she were a feather. Zina ran after him in silence, wildly waving her arms. Callista brought up the rear.

  Some minutes later a scene was enacted in that part of the forest round a fire, the embers of which had been revived by the race whose immemorial fanaticism in matters of vengeance knew no bounds — a scene was enacted which would need the brush of a Goya to portray in all its peculiar and potent vividness and horror.

  Fantastic creatures, fiends, spectres or monsters swarmed round the fire which was scorching human flesh. An abominable odour, which seemed to intoxicate these beings escaped from another world, spread from the forest. —

  The youthful Ari, whose beautiful bright eyes reflected her fifteen summers, lay stretched on the grass, holding her chin in her amber-coloured hands and smiling at Olajai’s torment. He must have bitterly regretted that the dagger had not inflicted a death-blow as the fire burnt his feet. Smiling at him with her three loose teeth, Oliva had thrust a scrap of her shawl in his mouth to suppress his ineffectual outcries.

  Sumbalo, seated on a step of his caravan, presided over the execution in silence, with a dignity which might have been envied by the Grand Inquisitor.... A dozen youngsters danced round this little private diversion with the hop and skip peculiar to the imps of the road.

  Suco, the blacksmith, held the prisoner’s ankles in such a grip that the latter seemed as if he were a willing victim. Suco’s hands were of iron and feared no fire....

  And Olaja’s feet, which had become soft in the service of the aliens, supplied the necessary fuel.

  Part II

  CHAPTER XXIX

  IN WHICH OLAJAÏ IS STILL SORRY FOR TALKING TOO MUCH AND TAKES HIS REVENGE BY TALKING MORE

  THE TOPS OF the pine trees were beginning to emerge from the darkness like tall wan ghosts, and the horizon in the east was streaked with a greenish and sinister line, when the young goat-herd whom Rouletabille had sent to keep a look out came running up to the inn.

  He had watched from a distance, hanging to the branch of a tree like a squirrel, Olajai’s sufferings; a spectacle which had hugely excited him. He was a manly lad not far removed from nature, kind to animals to which he was attached as though they were his own family, but inquisitive as befits every urchin at his age.

  He had torn himself away from this amazing “diversion,” only when a general stir among the gipsies, the hot haste with which they harnessed their hacks, warned him that they were preparing to leave New Wachter and the neighbourhood. Fearing lest the reward which he had been promised should escape him, he ran back without stopping to the inn.

  It was half-past three in the morning. At that time of the year the nights are short. The inn door stood ajar, and he saw Rouletabille in the yard arguing with Otto about the hire, for the day, of a couple of old crocks which had been his beasts of burden for fifteen years. Otto declared that he particularly wanted them that day, and could not part with them for a song. Rouletabille suggested a figure which brought about an agreement, and without further ado he leapt into the saddle.

  He called de Lauriac, who proceeded to dress. When he appeared and saw the animal intended for his use he pulled a wry face.

  “We haven’t any choice,” Rouletabille shouted. “Let’s be off. The gipsies have already cleared out.”

  He was determined to hire the horses, for he did not feel sufficiently alert and well to risk a journey on foot in an affair of this sort, and moreover he was not anxious for de Lauriac to notice his state of inferiority.

  The young goat-herd trotted in front of them. When he came to the border of the wood, the youngster pointed to the road which they would have to take to reach the gipsy encampment by the shortest way, and claiming his reward, scampered off like a hare.

  A few minutes later the two horsemen were arrested by the sound of moans and groans.

  They dismounted, tied up their animals, and crept forward under the trees with the utmost caution. Thus they reached the camping ground. The caravans had already flitted, but the embers of the fires were still smouldering. Not a soul was there. And yet the moans, which for a moment had been still, broke forth louder than ever.

  Rouletabille went a few steps into a thicket, pushed aside the branches and shouted for de Lauriac.... Between them they carried out a poor fellow who was bleeding from several wounds and unable to stand.

  “Olajaï!” Rouletabille cried with horror, for he then discovered the pitiful state in which the gipsies had left his feet.

  Olajaï opened his eyes. He recognized his master. He gave him a sad smile; and his lips parted as if to ask for something to drink. Rouletabille put his flask between his teeth while Lauriac lifted his head.... There was a running brook near by, and he bade de Lauriac soak a handkerchief in it; and holding the gipsy in his turn said:

  “They struck at you because of me, didn’t they?” Olajaï made an affirmative motion of his head. De Lauriac soon came back.

  “Take care!” Olajaï breathed. “They will serve you the same one day. Go back... go back to Paris!”

  “And Mademoiselle de Lavardens?” asked the journalist anxiously.

  “She is the young queen,” he said, shaking his head. “They will never give her up.”

  De Lauriac was on his knees beside the wounded man preparing to bathe his wounds. He heard Olajaï’s last words and gave a start. Rouletabille observed his agitation.

  “Look here, Olajaï,” he said, “don’t give away to despair. We may still, perhaps, save your life. We will send assistance to you at once, but my friend and I must overtake the caravans.... They went off by this road, didn’t they?”

  By a supreme effort Olajaï lifted himself. The fire of revenge flashed in his eyes.

  “They’ve taken her in another direction.”

  “Who are they?... Andréa?... Callista?”

  “Yes, and Zina.... But I can tell you... I can tell you where they must all meet again.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment as if he were about to draw his last breath “Olajaï!... Olajaï! — . Where are they to meet?” whispered Rouletabille.

  He uttered a name in a breath which was like a death rattle.

  “Temesvar Pesth.”

  “Let’s go,” cried Rouletabille. “Temesvar is too near Sever Turn, and if Odette once gets inside Sever Turn she will never leave it.”

  To his amazement de Lauriac answered:

  “You go, and I’ll follow later. I can’t leave this poor fellow here.”

  “Good-bye, Olajaï,” said Rouletabille, casting a look of suspicion and menace at de Lauriac a
nd disappearing under the trees.

  He felt that Olajai was stricken to death, and after all he had not come thus far in order to save him though he had been a faithful servant. First and foremost he must not lose track of Odette.... The hapless Olajai was the first to be sacrificed... nor would he be the only victim. Was he not himself marked down? It was a formidable and cruel enterprise, and he must needs have an iron heart. —

  Left behind with Olajai and certain of remaining undisturbed, de Lauriac continued eagerly to question him. — Rouletabille’s flask contained water, but de Lauriac’s contained fire — brandy — which considerably revived the dying man. His thoughts were now concentrated upon his master: “He was very good to me. Some years ago he saved my life. I have laid down mine for him. But let him beware! I warned him at Camargue. And I warned the Octopus also when she came.”

  “Who is the Octopus,” questioned de Lauriac.

  “Don’t you know? My master and Callista are friends of hers. She came to Les Saintes Maries.... She wanted to see Callista.... I took her everywhere where Callista was to be seen. The Octopus promised in return to take Rouletabille away from Odette... far from Odette.... If I had only known when she came to the flat in Paris!”

  “Who came to the flat?”

  “Odette. They are all crazy about her. It will bring them bad luck.”

  “Did Odette come to Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  “To Rouletabille’s flat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that long ago?”

  “No.... You are his friend. Just see!... He must forget her. She is the queen foretold in the sacred writings.”

  “But she has no birth-mark on her shoulder,” said de Lauriac, eyeing him greedily.

  “Yes, she has,” Olajai returned. “She has the birth-mark on her shoulder... the sign of the crown.” And he lifted himself and stared at de Lauriac in his turn.

  “I am dying because of her.... I talked too much.”

  “But Mademoiselle de Lavardens is not a gipsy,” objected de Lauriac with a catch in his breath.

  “Yes, she is pure Tsigane by birth. I knew her raya, her mother, her real mother. Monsieur de Lavardens used to live in Sever Turn.... He married there according to our rites.... The raya died in giving birth to a child, and Zina was the child’s foster-mother. Zina will tell you everything. The father fled with the child as it was written. That child — was Odette.”

  De Lauriac leapt to his feet and started at a run to the inn, leaving the unhappy man in his death agony.... Fortunately a cart happened to be passing at the time.

  CHAPTER XXX

  “HELP, LITTLE ZO!”

  THE GIPSIES WERE by no means easy in their minds after Callista and Andréa had taken Odette away. Not that they lacked confidence in the two gipsies, and in particular Zina, who went with them, but they feared lest some wretched accident should befall their young queen which would cut her off from them for ever. Until then they had formed a safe escort which had been reinforced little by little as they proceeded towards the East. That escort was an honour to their race as well as a considerable safeguard. They would have slaughtered a thousand aliens rather than surrender their queen.... Now she was all but unprotected, and they knew that they would have to reckon with their worst enemy — this Rouletabille, who was up to all sorts of tricks, was the most artful of their adversaries, and had already led them a pretty dance. Whatever Sumbalo might say, they ought never to have abandoned their precious charge.

  What would the Great Chief — the man who carried the whip across his shoulder with which he inflicted punishment — and the Patriarch say if anything happened to the queyra? They would be held responsible for the calamity, and punished by fire and sword, and it would serve them right.... Olajai’s torment no longer diverted them. They were seized with a fever to leave the place. They threatened Sumbalo and he was constrained to give way. Moreover, the chief himself was not without qualms.

  They therefore broke camp in disorder, their caravans crushing and jostling and running into each other; and they left behind the human remnant whom they had flung into a thicket without troubling further about him. They would rejoin their young queen. And they would escape Rouletabille.

  But Rouletabille did not pursue them. Enlightened by the few words which he was able to extract from Olajai, he followed the tracks of a single caravan which made a detour in order to keep as far away as possible from the main road. For nearly two hours he guided his horse through paths of unwonted difficulty, wondering how a caravan could cover such ruts without being overturned, when suddenly he caught sight of the caravan in the middle of a dense wood some hundred yards ahead. It had pulled up.

  Andréa and Callista must have felt confident of safety at least for a few hours, and were resting their jaded horses.

  Rouletabille slipped from the saddle, tied his horse to a tree, and revolver in hand stole beneath the branches. His foot still pained him, his shoulder was still inflamed, but he none the less displayed the swift and sinuous cunning of the serpent. The moment for action was at hand, and he was confident that victory would be his.

  He held that, at long last, the odds were considerably in his favour. He was about to take by surprise a man and two women in no condition to defend themselves. He made up his mind to shoot down Andréa like a dog, and spare neither Callista nor Zina if they raised serious difficulties.

  The way led through a dense, close-planted wood in which the thorns grazed him, and he was beset by innumerable creeping plants. With the patience of a red Indian on the warpath, he rid himself one by one of the bonds which encompassed him, sought to hold him back, and seemed to forbid him to press forward. Under the overhanging trees gleamed a diffused light, misty from the exhalation of the soil in the early sunlight.

  No obstacle made him swerve from the course which he had marked out by anticipation as he observed the lay of a number of tall pine-trees which crowned the forest with their century-old columns.... He did not make a sound.

  He felt convinced that he had not raised the alarm.... He was now not far from the caravan.... He expected to hear the sound of voices, but only the occasional cry of a bird circling overhead broke the stillness.... One last silent effort, and the caravan lay before him.... They must all — horses and fugitives — be asleep, save perhaps Odette.

  Rouletabille had now attained the edge of the narrow open space in which this cabin on wheels had come to a stand. Before his eyes stood the two-winged door, the upper half of which was glass, and hung with squalid curtains — the door which was reached by steps or rather the few rungs of a ladder.

  That was Odette’s prison! It was the palace of the queen of the gipsies.... And no one was near!

  The horses had been unharnessed and must be resting not far away, close to some stream. Rouletabille was on all fours. He rose to his feet, revolver in hand, his heart beating wildly. He crept up to the steps, and suddenly hurled himself against the door breaking it in with a tremendous blow from his knees.

  “Hands up!”

  Nobody there! The cabin was empty.... The caravan was deserted, and the words “Help, little Zo,” written with a knife on the side, brought the tears to his eyes.

  “Little Zo!” She knew, therefore, that he was there, he thought. Or else without being certain that he was there, she was hoping that he was shadowing her and waiting for a favourable moment to release her. When all was said and done, she had not ceased to put her trust in him, and it was to him that she was calling.

  At the thought of it a cold sweat broke over his temples and his throbbing heart almost ceased to beat. It was but a momentary dizziness, and then he proved himself stronger than his delirious imagination. Once more he found the means, as he staggered where he stood, to lean, on the right end of his judgment.

  What was it that the “right end of his judgment” revealed to him? It was the mental picture of two lovers, a delightful picture of a young married couple, of Odette leaning upon Jean’s a
rm, and smiling up at her husband, while he, in the background, kept watch over their happiness like a faithful friend and brother.

  True, she had stirred him by her wondrous grace which brought back so many memories. Ivana! Ivana, too, was a daughter of the East; she, too, had that look in her eyes, that smile, suggestive of hidden mystery.... And how he had loved her!... Come, come now, Odette!.... Rouletabille was in love with a resemblance, a resemblance to the living Ivana.... He loved the young, breathing Odette only as a sister, an adorable, frail young sister whom it was his duty to look after for his friend Jean’s sake. Nevertheless, before he could look after her he must restore her to him, since she had been taken away from him.

  Forward!

  He left the hateful prison.... His limbs no longer trembled beneath him; his agitation was over.... Heavens above, she had called him “little Zo,” as Ivana was wont to call him in moments of great stress in the Balkans.... Well, he must ask forgiveness of the shade of Ivana, ask forgiveness of Jean, and save the life of his young sister. The villains had carried her off like thieves in the night. To what den had they taken her? That was what he had to discover.

  Rouletabille picked up the trail of the thieves — a trail of twists and turns, which he followed and lost and picked up again, and which harassed his mind for many hours....

  And now his chest is like a bellows; everything in him and round him burns, and the forest itself seems blazing. He is in the thick of a grove of fir trees. Under the fiery sun the sap exuding from the wounded barks sheds its perfume in the air. He can no longer breathe; a thick and scorching mist dims the outline of things around. He sinks exhausted to the ground — upon a carpet of countless golden needles.

  And suddenly at the moment when he is about to close his eyes, a man in the fullness of his strength and arrogance stands before him. He has a way of sporting an old and worn jacket over his shoulders as though the tattered garment were the cloak of a courtier. A red belt in which strange-looking weapons are stuck, winds several times round his waist; and above his leggings he wears breeches ornamented with fringe which has possibly been cut out of an old carpet. He is a splendid figure!