Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  She uttered a cry... shouted for assistance. The cry was taken up and the air resounded with oaths. “They’re carrying off the queyra,” they yelled. An indescribable uproar and confusion ensued; the men flew to their arms, and rushed madly in all directions. Callista, followed by Andréa, panic-stricken, ran up.... Ah, this Callista, how quickly she had leapt to her feet! With a scream of rage she flung Andréa aside: —

  “You swore to watch over her. I owe you nothing now.”

  It was, in truth, poor Zina who suffered the most grievous time. She was abused and beaten and bruised without mercy. While the plain echoed with the galloping gipsies, the camp was filled with the shrieks of the old woman. Some of them did not hesitate to accuse her of complicity in Odette’s escape, and they made her smart cruelly for it. The women in their frenzy hung on to her black hair; and she might have been killed on the spot but for the intervention of Sumbalo, who compelled the harpies to let go their hold.

  Jean heard the shouts and shots and assumed that de Lauriac had been successful. He made ready to join him, as much to lend him a helping hand as to avoid leaving him alone with his beautiful captive.

  He stood on the summit of a conical hill which served as his observatory, and strove to penetrate the gathering darkness. The moon appeared between two clouds, and he beheld the gipsies’ headlong race as they instinctively made for the road to the east. And while he saw them, he too was seen.

  A general outcry greeted the sight of him. It would seem that they took him for the abductor, and he scarcely had time to gallop back to the plain. They flocked after him, urging each other on with fierce shouts. They did not yet fire on him, fearing lest their shots, aimed at the equestrian shadow fleeing before them, might strike down the queen on whom all their hopes were set.

  Jean at last reached the road, but he realized that he would be overtaken, and suddenly in desperation he flung himself into a willow plantation on the bank of a swamp.

  Here he did not hesitate to abandon his horse. He leapt into the water and succeeded in reaching the opposite bank, after untold efforts to save himself from being engulfed in the sand.

  Then, utterly exhausted, he lay down among the reeds waiting the course of events, incapable for the time being of the least exertion. He could hear, in the distance, the mad shouting of men beating down the tall grass as they drew near in their search for him. Lights flickered to and fro. He closed his eyes....

  De Lauriac, on the other hand, had not, so to speak, budged. He was hiding in a tree with Odette. His horse, tethered in a gully, was eating his feed of corn from a nosebag which his master had fastened to his collar before leaving him, and was too busy to make himself heard.

  When the clamour near the camp began to sober down, and the horsemen had vanished into the night like madmen riding the darkness, he descended from his refuge, carrying Odette in his arms.

  Soon he? came up to his mount. He put Odette in the saddle and led the horse by the bridle. Thus they advanced, making a number of winds and turns in the forest. He did not hesitate in his course. He knew exactly where he was going. From time to time he recognized a landmark and quickened his pace. It was still dark when he emerged into the plain on the northern side, where it was certain no one would look for him.

  Then he mounted his horse. With one arm he held Odette seated in the saddle before him, and his heart throbbed as he felt the contact of her young form against his breast.

  “This is like old times,” he whispered in her ear....

  He put spurs to his horse, and the pebbles on the road flew under the furious clatter of the hoofs.

  Yes, it was like old times, when Odette was quite a little girl and rode with him thus and battled with the wind in Camargue; like old times when she considered him the handsomest man among the herdsmen and could not do without him; like old times, when she loved him with all the strength of her simple, shy-young heart.

  Could she not love him as before? Had he himself changed? Was he not as valiant as of old? Was there anyone in the world of whom he stood in fear? Did he fear this Jean who, in his absence, had for a time stolen his way into her young girl’s heart? Did he fear this Rouletabille, who also seemed for a time to have supplanted him? The truth was, he thought, that Odette had remained a child, and the transient feelings with which her innocent heart was stirred would soon be forgotten when she saw no one but himself.

  At daybreak they reached a sunk road leading to an ancient tower, in part demolished, from which, as they drew near, a host of pigeons took flight.

  “Here we are,” said de Lauriac.

  Odette had not yet uttered a word. She slid down from the horse, and de Lauriac led the way with a great deal of ceremony, smiling the while, to a low-ceilinged room.

  “Here is your palace, my queen.”

  But Odette did not smile. De Lauriac in a polite mood frightened her. She cast a glance at him, averted her head, and coloured as she caught the passion in his eyes.

  At first Odette had received de Lauriac as her deliverer, but now that she was alone with him in that old tower, in that lost wilderness in which she could hope for no succour, she wondered anxiously whether it would not have been better for her to remain a prisoner of those gipsies, who had surrounded her with every mark of honour and respect.

  Deep down within herself she felt no confidence in de Lauriac, for she knew his reputation for brutality in Camargue; and she had accompanied him so readily because he had taken advantage of the stupor, or rather the mental depression, into which he had thrown her by his story of Jean remaining in France and making no attempts to rescue her.

  Why had she believed him? He had, perhaps, lied. He must indeed have lied. She knew her Jean. He was incapable of such perfidy. The treacherous, the wicked man in the case was de Lauriac himself. And she was alone with him. A shudder passed through her.

  She dared not look at him. He had moved away slightly in order to reassure her, and seemed now absorbed solely in “household affairs.”

  Everything had been made ready by him in this small room so that they might spend some hours in rest and refreshment. The place was comparatively clean, and had recently been cleared of various rubbish which encumbered it. A sort of fireplace had been built with a heap of fallen stones, and a wood fire was ready to be lighted if Odette felt cold. A bed of ferns, on which lay a blanket, was prepared for her use. Lastly, de Lauriac had produced a small spirit lamp, and was boiling the water for tea.

  Meantime he asked her if she would care to take a little brandy to revive her, and offered her the cup of his flask, but she declined. Then he drew from a crevice in the wall something which he had set aside. “Would you like an omelette?” he asked.

  These were pigeons’ eggs. She smiled.... He was no longer staring at her. She plucked up courage.

  “Yes, an omelette. You’ve thought of everything. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “It is I who should thank you for agreeing to come with me,” he returned, without looking up, for he was on his knees beating up the eggs in a tin dish. “We shall have a nice little dinner.”

  “Do you think we are now safe?” she asked, so as to say something, for she felt that silence between them was more painful than words.

  “I think so,” he assured her. “We have thrown those infernal gipsies off the scent. To ensure greater safety we shall travel only at night. To-

  morrow we reach a town. We will take the train and be in France in a couple of days.”

  “In France!”

  Her thoughts turned to Jean, but she dared not utter his name. She spoke of her father.

  “He is very ill,” said de Lauriac. “Your abduction was a crushing blow to him. Moreover, we had a terrible scene the day before. Though I was wrong to write that letter, you were wrong to show it to him. Still, when I heard of this incomprehensible abduction, I hastened to him and apologized and placed my services at his disposal. Monsieur de Santierne was with him. There was an explanation between the
three of us. Matters had reached the point when your father made no secret of your birth:

  ‘The gipsies have retaken her because she is a gipsy princess,’ he said. ‘Her mother was a Sever Turn gipsy.’”

  “Good gracious, so it is true,” cried Odette in a strained voice. “I am the daughter of a gipsy.”

  “Why, are you ashamed of your birth?” asked de Lauriac quietly. “Your mother was, it seems, of high rank, and it is this fact which is the cause of your trouble. But I have sworn to make you happy.”

  After these last words there was an oppressive silence. Odette could hear the wild throbbing of her heart.

  “Monsieur de Santierne did not wait to hear more,” de Lauriac went on. “He left us, declaring that a de Santierne could never marry a gipsy girl, a child of the road.”

  Odette leant against the wall and covered her face with her hands. She would have fallen to the ground had he not held her.

  “He was unworthy of you,” he murmured. “Have you not already judged him.... Odette, I alone love you. I have always loved you.”

  She sobbed aloud. She did not notice that she lay in his arms, and suddenly relaxing his hold with a gesture which he was unable to control, he caught the beloved face, bathed in tears, and madly kissed her lips parted in an expression of despair.

  His burning kiss at once restored Odette to the full possession of her faculties. With an irresistible movement she flung him aside, and it was as much as he could do to save himself from a grotesque fall.

  “So it was for this that you came to my rescue,” she cried fiercely. “Understand: — I prefer the gipsies.”

  She stood before him as brave as a lion. He could hardly believe his eyes. She sprang towards the door, but he was before her and, seizing her in his powerful arms, threw her back with unspeakable violence into this lair to which he had brought her, and, with a jeer charged with menace, cried:

  “You prefer the gipsies!... Let your fate take its course, Odette.”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  “IT’S ALL ROULETABILLE’S FAULT”

  JEAN HAD FALLEN asleep. Fatigue had overcome him. He did not wake up until daybreak. Memories of the events of the day before crowded upon him. He crawled carefully for a few minutes among the reeds. No sound could be heard near him. He felt reassured and stood up. The danger was past.... But what had become of Odette? Had the gipsies recaptured her? And if de Lauriac had succeeded in getting away with her, what had become of de Lauriac?... It was this last thought which was the most painful to him.

  He walked a little way, and beheld through the haze of the early morning sun the plain outstretched before him. The vast level ground was like a sea of golden verdure bedecked with variegated colour. Masses of cornflowers in every shade of blue and red and violet bloomed amid the thin, dry, tall grass; the gorse stood in yellow pyramids; the poppies made blood-red patches under his feet, the air was filled with the music of birds. In the distance the piercing notes of a flock of wild duck rent the silence, as they flew in a dense cloud to some lake hidden in the immensity of the plain.

  “This is an earthly paradise, and I am dying of hunger,” said Jean to himself.

  He had lost everything. His horse had undoubtedly fallen into the hands of the gipsies. Westwards he discerned the smoke of a village. But it was not in the direction of the village that he wended his way. The thought of de Lauriac and Odette obsessed him. Where had they taken refuge in their flight from the enemy? His gaze strayed over the plain, and he observed a few hundred yards away on the right a small wood, which, save the willow-grove surrounding the marshes which he had just left, was the sole spot in which it was possible to hide.

  At all events he would not leave the plain without first searching this wood, and he soon reached it.

  His eyes scrutinized the track for tell-tale footmarks, as he had often seen Rouletabille do, but nothing specially worth noting attracted his attention.... Oh, this Rouletabille! It was all his fault. Why had he left them? To begin with, the three of them ought never to have parted company — and for very good reasons.

  The memory of his conversation with de Lauriac rankled in his mind. Rouletabille’s attitude seemed more and more suspect and impossible to understand. He no longer believed in anything and had lost faith even in Rouletabille. Moreover, he had not hesitated to cast his doubts in his teeth.

  Jean seated himself in the solitude of the wood on a fallen tree-trunk which barred his irresolute steps, and began to reflect. Reflect upon what? In reality he could think of but one thing, a thing of which he was absolutely certain — he was the most miserable of men.

  Suddenly he raised his head. He seemed to hear a sound. The branches were thrust apart and a man stood before him. It was Andréa.

  “I’ve found you at last,” said the gipsy.

  He had appeared in this same way to Rouletabille in the wood at New Wachter, but his purpose then was to get rid of him. On this occasion he seemed in no hurry to part with Jean.

  “Do you recognize me?” he asked.

  “No,” returned Jean. “People of your race mean very little to me. But I am not sure that you are a friend of mine.”

  “I am the man who loved Callista. You stole her from me,” said Andréa harshly.

  “Well, we are quits. I am not in love with Callista, but I am in love with a girl whom you forcibly kidnapped. Andréa, for that’s what they call you, do you want to make your fortune? As far as Callista is concerned, you can be easy in your mind in the future, for I shan’t take her away from you again, but if you will help me to find Mademoiselle de Lavardens I will make it worth your while.”

  Andréa received the offer with a loud guffaw, to which other guffaws not less significant echoed in unison.

  Jean turned his head and perceived standing round him a number of armed gipsies, who took stock of him with a look of bitter hostility.

  He made a movement to withdraw from the circle which enclosed him, but came up against a solid wall of men who repelled him by a waving of arms.

  “You are our prisoner,” declared Andréa.

  “We shan’t go back to camp empty-handed,” broke in Monoko, the tinsmith, in a strong Pézenas accent.

  “You are a fellow-countryman,” said Jean, turning to him, “and we may be able to come to an understanding if you are more amenable than they are. What you have just said shows that you haven’t succeeded in recapturing Mademoiselle de Lavardens. Tell me what I want to know and you won’t regret it.”

  The man gave a shrug of his shoulders and turned on his heel.

  “Now then, come with me,” ordered Andréa.

  Jean was obliged to accompany them. After all it was his own fault that he had delivered himself into their hands. When they failed to discover him in the reeds, they hunted for him in the wood and then camped till daybreak. From where they were they commanded a view of the whole plain and they saw Jean coming towards them....

  It was evident that Odette had managed to elude them.... The thought that she had been rescued by de Lauriac was anything but an unmixed joy to him.

  He was very weary, and an increasing sense of dejection stole over him at the intolerable thought that de Lauriac was free to do as he pleased with Odette. To make matters worse, he would have to abandon all hope for the time being of falling in with them.

  What did those brigands intend to do with him? They had disarmed him and he was marched off as their prisoner. Strange to say, this last adventure left him almost indifferent as to the fate which lay in store for him. In truth, he thought of de Lauriac only to execrate him, and now and then of Rouletabille only to curse him.

  The gipsies traversed the wood by the most out-of-the-way tracks, in order to avoid the roads and even the least semblance of a path. They did not reach the camp until nightfall.

  Consternation still prevailed in it. When those who had remained behind saw their brethren return without the queyra they gave vent to yells of fury and terrible threats against Jean and then
broke into loud lamentations. The women put ashes on their heads. Zina seemed as if she were possessed of a devil. She cried out on all the gipsy gods in an infuriated gibberish.

  After a while they harked back to Jean with fierce clamour. Callista suddenly came upon the scene and was not less implacable than the rest. Sumbalo was obliged to intervene when she began to incite them to wreak their vengeance there and then on their prisoner. Jean no longer recognized this hell-cat.

  Was this the young, fantastic, easy-going mistress whom he had dressed like a doll for a couple of years, and imagined that he had transformed into a “Parisienne”? All the primitive savagery of her race revealed itself in the fierce passion of her eyes, in the threats and insults which rose to her lips and consigned him to perdition.

  “The Patriarch will decide,” declared Sumbalo. “He alone has the right to pass sentence on so great a crime.”

  He ended by making a speech, which had the effect of quietening his people. Callista herself went away and Jean for the time being was left in peace.

  Sumbalo went up to him:

  “There is only one way for you, stranger, to get out of this trouble: tell us where to find our queen. You must know where she is.”

  Jean did not even answer him. Then Sumbalo, greatly perturbed, also left him. It was the most disastrous incident in his life. To allow the queyra to slip out of his hands! Fortunately he was taking one of those aliens to Sever Turn. The wrath of the people would fall upon that man.

  He was determined that his prisoner should reach Sever Turn alive. Thus he gave orders for food to be supplied to him.

  During the succeeding hours more gipsies, who had lingered in other directions in the search for Odette’s trail, returned to camp in a state of profound dejection. The news of the alien’s capture was no consolation to them. They threatened Jean with clenched fists, and then went away to bed.

  The fires were extinguished.