Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  The wretched Chéri-Bibi called to mind the abominable insinuations of the women on the “Bayard” when they accused his Cecily of giving ear to the amorous nonsense of this de Pont-Marie... If it were really true!... Absurd... The thought of it was too awful; it made him miserable to entertain so monstrous an idea... His Cecily... his pure Cecily... to love a stupid ass of that type... An idiot with a monocle... The short sight which was suggested by a monocle was equivalent in his eyes to a diploma of idiocy.

  But it was he, Chéri-Bibi who was the idiot, and the proof was that in the very middle of the dance, the fair Marchioness released herself, gently but firmly, from her partner and asked him in decisive tones — Chéri-Bibi had the divine joy of hearing her — to take her back to her seat.

  It served de Pont-Marie right. Chéri-Bibi began to laugh as if he were out of his wits. The other pulled a face... such a face! Well, she had put him in his place. There was no mistake about that. Chéri-Bibi jumped for joy. He did not hear the people near him say “That poor fellow is off his head” as they watched him in bewilderment.

  The Dodger had to pull him by the sleeve to bring him back to a sense of realities and good manners... Oh but Chéri-Bibi was delighted now. True, he had never doubted Cecily; but even so if ever anyone told stories — men and women alike are so disposed to be spiteful — he knew that Cecily was not in love with de Pont-Marie. He had just received the proof; more than that, this scene at the ball demonstrated that she had never allowed Pont-Marie to say a word to her that was in the least degree “unseemly.”

  His enthusiasm was complete when he saw the young Marchioness du Touchais lean over and whisper to the Dowager Marchioness, and induce her to leave the ballroom. They rose, and Chéri-Bibi repressing a desire to clap his hands, said to himself:

  “You are quite right my dearest. I certainly share your opinion. Fly, my dove, back to your nest. This ball-room in which one meets people like the Baroness Proskof and de Pont-Marie is no place for you.”

  It so happened that Baroness Proskof and her husband were near the door at the moment when the two ladies were about to pass out, after taking leave of the Deputy Prefect and a few friends, on the plea that the Dowager was tired. The Baroness had requested the Baron in a loud voice to take her for a while to the card-room, and a meeting was inevitable.

  The “Belle of Dieppe” with unexampled arrogance passed directly in front of Cecily stopping her from continuing her way, and even jostling her slightly. The entire assembly perceived the incident and there was a faint murmur of disapproval. The Dodger had the work of the world to restrain Chéri-Bibi who wanted in double quick time to jump from the window and bring the Baron to account. A lady seated on a settee said plainly:

  “It’s a shame. The poor young Marchioness has done the right thing in leaving. It’s not the first time that that woman has insulted her.”

  Chéri-Bibi hastened to the vestibule dragging with him the Dodger, who was holding on to his coat, and he saw the two ladies pass out on their way to the iron gate. He followed them. By an unkind fate, when they reached the gate, they once more met the Baroness whose husband was calling for his carriage. When Cecily left the ball-room, apparently, the Baroness realising that there was no further opportunity of insulting her, considered that the evening was at an end and determined to turn elsewhere for amusement.

  The two ladies were waiting for their motor-car.

  As ill-luck would have it, rain had begun to fall, hard and fast, and a certain amount of hustle and hurry occurred in the movement of the traffic. The Marchioness’s car appeared at the same time as the landau drawn by two horses belonging to the Baron.

  The “Belle of Dieppe” at once raised her voice and ordered the coachman to make haste and draw up beside her by the shortest way. The coachman in carrying out her instructions, obstructed the Marchioness’s car which had to come to a stand in order to avoid an accident.

  The Baroness took advantage of the incident to pass in front of Cecily. She was placing her foot on the carriage step when she quickly drew back with a cry of terror. An unknown individual had seized the two horses by their heads, and under his irresistible pressure they backed neighing and struggling in his iron grip, so that the carriage was forced to the rear with startling and unexpected rapidity.

  However the space was cleared, and the Marchioness’s chauffeur was able to draw up alongside the pavement. The two ladies quickly mounted the car while the unknown individual shouted in stentorian tones:

  “Respectable women first!”

  The car drove off in style while Cecily leaning out of the window tried in vain to catch sight of the man to whom she was indebted for this extraordinary turn of the tables. But he was out of sight. And Baron Proskof who was brandishing on high his card, with a view of challenging the unknown man and did not know to whom to hand it, was a source of amusement to the crowd.

  “It’s time we went back to our hotel,” said the Dodger to Chéri-Bibi after this lucky stroke. “But allow me, my dear Marquis to observe in all friendship that we have got back again to that quarrelsome disposition which has already cost us so much trouble. And then chauffeurs and coachmen should be left to look out for themselves. To take horses by their bridles and to force them to back is ostler’s work, monsieur le Marquis.”

  CHAPTER III

  A NICE GENTLEMAN

  CECILY WAS PLAYING with her son. Greuze himself had never delineated with greater charm a mother at play. They were chasing each other in the shady walks of the Villa at Le Puys. Little Bernard who was seven years of age, was already a lovable little scamp who did with his mother as he pleased. Cecily’s tender weakness was rendered all the more excusable by the wretchedness of her home life.

  Her son was everything to her. She felt no happiness apart from him. Although he was already more than she could manage, she regarded him as the sweetest child in the world. It was true that he in no way resembled his father.

  On the morning after the Ball in Aid of Poor Seamen, she pressed the little fellow to her heart with unwonted emotion which he at once noticed.

  “What’s the matter Mummy? Are you upset? Have you been crying?”

  And as his mother turned her head away without replying to him, he gave a sturdy kick and smashed his mechanical horse. Whereupon Cecily was greatly touched and with the adorable infatuation of mothers said to herself: “The moment he knows that I’m worried the poor little fellow can’t bear the sight of his toys.”

  It was she who had taught him to read and write. Bernard was very intelligent, and had proved an apt pupil, and his mother was inordinately proud of him. Her son was destined to have a high career. Heaven which, on the one band, had sent her great trials had, on the other, given her the consolation of this child. She was happy only when she was with him, and she gave way to his every whim.

  The child, for that matter, worshipped his mother whom he considered beautiful, the most beautiful of all mothers, as he said, and he liked to cover with caresses her comely cheeks and splendid bare arms, lifting the sleeve of her gown like a young lover.

  “Bernard come and kiss me.”

  “Oh Mummy how nice you look.”

  A footman announced M. de Pont-Marie.

  “Oh it’s my friend Georges. Ask him to come in at once... Mummy let’s run and meet him,” exclaimed the boy delightedly, for M. de Pont-Marie had known how to win his heart by loading him with toys and sweetmeats; and Bernard had a sweet tooth.

  But to Bernard’s astonishment his mother requested the man to take M. de Pont-Marie to the small reception room, and holding the boy’s hand she led him to the study where she handed him over to the governess.

  “But I want to see my friend Georges.”

  “Some other time my pet. You must do your lessons now.” And turning to the governess she said: “I give him into your charge. Don’t leave him.” She kissed him warmly, but the child was in the sulks as he let her go.

  Cecily was greatly perturbed. She w
ent to her boudoir in order to calm her agitation. M. de Pont-Marie’s audacity knew no limits. To return that morning after what had happened the night before!... She gave a sigh. What a set of base creatures, in truth, men were. She had known but one, one only, whom she could place above the common herd. But he had a heart of gold. He had lived but for her, and his image, encircled, alas, in a frame of sorrow, never left her. At the remembrance of him Cecily could not keep back the tears. But she quickly dried her eyes for she called to mind that M. de Pont-Marie was waiting for her.

  She rose, assumed an appearance of anger, and entered the small reception room, greatly disturbed in reality, and paler than usual.

  Facing her stood the “friend of the family” who bowed with formal politeness, waiting for a signal from her to be seated like a stranger paying a visit.

  Cecily pointed to a chair, sat down herself a little way off, and began:

  “I am glad you called this morning, M. de Pont-Marie. You will know all the sooner what I have to say. You must not come here any more my poor friend.”

  “Madame!” protested the “poor friend” at once rising from his seat.

  “Yes, Monsieur de Pont-Marie, you are a gentleman. How could you have behaved as you did last night?”

  “I assure you that any gentleman in my place would have done the same thing. You are very attractive. No gentleman, certainly, could have resisted the pleasure of telling you so. I told you so. I can’t see that I’ve committed any great crime.”

  “But Monsieur de Pont-Marie what is the use of it all? You say you love me. I don’t love you and I never shall, and my duty is to refuse to listen to you any longer. The first time you spoke of such things, I overlooked it. In the face of my threat to close my door to you, you showed such sincere contrition that I had compassion on you, and also to some extent, I must confess to be honest, on myself... I was alone, neglected; I had no friends; my husband had deserted me. I was sick at heart. For some months you seemed to have changed your life completely; you surrounded me with kindly attentions, apparently disinterested, you pitied me greatly, and you so fully understood my sorrow that I felt a real sympathy for you. I do not deny it — far from it; and then suddenly I find myself in the presence of a man, like other men, who is bent on taking advantage of a poor woman’s weakness and loneliness...

  “I assure you that I have had a great deal of anxiety, and it was pardonable in me to overlook your first mistake. You have known how to ingratiate yourself with my son Bernard, who is always greatly delighted to see you, and to play, as he calls it, with his good friend Georges. It was understood that no mention should be made of the past, and you would honestly make an effort not to refer to it. So gradually I gave way to the pleasure of our meetings. I enjoyed once more our quiet conversations, and our constant and perfectly friendly intercourse. I see, to-day, that in so doing it is I who am to blame. Well, Monsieur de Pont-Marie you must forgive me, as I forgive you the fervid and somewhat ridiculous words that you spoke last night; but you must understand that the experiment has lasted long enough, that it is final and we must not meet again. We must shake hands for the last time and say good-bye.”

  “But Cecily I love you.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “That’s out of the question. You don’t understand. Don’t you see that I love you to distraction? Yes I have been prudent. For two years I have not spoken a single word of love. I have had the incredible strength of mind to conceal from you the feeling which stirred my heart... to conceal from you that there was no more passionate lover than myself; that the fragrance of your dear presence delighted and made me dizzy; that even the friendly pressure of your hand gave me unspeakable joy; a look from your eyes enraptured me. But if I have shown such immense courage, it is simply because I knew that you were not like other women. I knew how to appreciate you, to give you your due position, to see you as you really are — the most virtuous, and most desirable of women, worthy of every sacrifice. I thought that, in the end, you would recognise that one cannot live in close friendship with a woman like yourself with impunity, and realise that I adored you; and finally that you would have compassion on my long self-denial, my respectful silence, my unspoken love. I thought to myself that so much restrained feeling would have its reward, and you would be mine one day.”

  Cecily rose and went towards the door but de Pont-Marie resolutely barred her way.

  “No, you will not leave me until I have said all that I have to say, until I have shown you my innermost soul. Cecily... Why do you not allow yourself to love? Why are we not lovers? It is your right — it is our right. You can be mine since you no longer belong to anyone... Your husband!... At one time you believed him dead and you were glad. Oh don’t deny it... I was here when news came of the loss of the “Belle of Dieppe.” I know quite well that you almost fainted. It was I who caught you in my arms. Divine moment!... And don’t tell me that you did not faint with joy, because you loathed the monster, who took from you all your life, all your illusions, who trampled under foot your most sacred feelings, who had but made you suffer and insulted you with the scandal of his mistresses. Yes, you believed that you were free... free... Well are you not in reality free I ask you? It is more than a year since he escaped from that strange adventure on the “Bayard,” and he has not once sent you any news of himself. Has he written to you? Has he taken any notice of his son? He has written to his solicitor yes; he has seen his solicitor; and he has concerned himself with his fortune, his property, his money. And he continues to travel about the world seeking distraction... But if his wife does not exist for him, why should he exist for her? You are not bound to that man any longer. You owe him nothing, not even a thought. You are free, I say. You are free and I love you Cecily... Cecily.”

  “Let me pass Monsieur, or I shall call my servant. Please... Please Monsieur de Pont-Marie. Do you want to create a scandal?... Come let me pass. But this is awful... You must be mad!...”

  The other had thrown himself on his knees, and was holding her round the knees in an iron grip. Terror stricken and not daring to cry out, she tried in vain to shake herself free. With convulsive fingers she pushed back his head, but he imprisoned her hands, covering them with kisses.

  But suddenly he let her go, and leapt away, uttering a cry of pain.

  Cecily had driven the pin of a brooch into his cheek. He was bleeding. He might have been seriously wounded. He snarled wild with rage:

  “You dislike me as much as that! Well, my beauty, you’re not going to have it all your own way. I tell you that I want you and I mean to have you.”

  At that moment certainly, M. de Pont-Marie had nothing of the polished gentleman about him. He was like a venomous and raging brute longing only to take vengeance on his prey. Cecily trembled before him like a fledgeling pursued by a hawk. His attitude was so menacing that she hesitated no longer. The governess and her son were but a few steps away. With one hand she distractedly opened the window. She was about to call for help when with a terrible gesture he compelled her to pause.

  She kept silent, for he went back, took a seat and said to her in a muffled voice:

  “Sit down. You needn’t be afraid... I won’t place my hand upon you again. But, shut the window. I have something to say to you...”

  And as she stood there without moving he rose and closed the window. She might have slipped out by the door, and she did in fact turn towards it, but with a word he rivetted her to the ground:

  “It’s about Bernard.”

  “What about Bernard?” she asked, at once on the defensive holding her breath.

  “Yes; and you quite understand that what I have to say must be between ourselves... Do please compose yourself... Look at me. My outburst is over. I am now calm. We shall need all our self-possession. Cecily you were wrong to behave towards me as you have done. I’ve no reason now to treat you with any consideration. I have tried to win you by constant friendship and devotion...”

  “By hypocrisy you mea
n,” she broke in.

  “If you like to call it so. We have reached the point when we can waive all compliments. And since hypocrisy has not succeeded, I will speak plainly. Cecily you are not an honest woman.”

  She rose as she spoke:

  “You scoundrel!”

  But de Pont-Marie was in no way disconcerted.

  “I repeat, you are not an honest woman. You were unfaithful to the Marquis.”

  “Coward... Coward... You know very well that what you say is false. You take advantage of my being alone to insult me... Go... Go...”

  “I defy you to turn me out.”

  “At once you scoundrel.”

  She put out her hand to the bell-pull.

  “That’s right, ring away, and everyone shall know that your son is not the Marquis’s son.”

  She dropped into a seat, wild-eyed, more dead than alive. “Ah, you can’t deny it,” went on de Pont-Marie with a harsh chuckle.

  “What do you expect me to say to such an infamous suggestion?” she stammered.

  “Strong language. You are always ready to use strong language. You will do better to be sensible, I assure you, and listen to me like a good girl. Pull yourself together Cecily... Someone might come in.”

  He rose, walked to the glass, smoothed his rumpled hair with the back of his hand, put his collar straight, tightened the knot of his tie, and wiped, with his handkerchief, the spot of blood which lay upon his cheek.

  “A little more and I should have been marked for life. That would have been a pity. I value my looks.”

  He turned round and saw her before him in a state of such fear and trembling that he felt, perhaps, a touch of pity for her. He sat down near her and in a voice that was once more calm and polished he went on:

  “Cecily, you loved your cousin Marcel Gara van, a Captain in the merchant service who died in New Orleans some four years ago. Don’t let’s have any useless denials. As for me, I’m speaking like a man who does not intend to make any more bones about it. This young man had no money, and nothing in the world would have induced your father to allow you to marry him. I need not dwell on the melancholy events which made you the Marchioness du Touchais. Eight years ago while the Marquis was finishing a tour of the Norwegian coast with his friends of whom I was one, Marcel Caravan came to Dieppe to pay a visit to his cousin. He admired you. You loved him. The result can be imagined.”