When they were in Nina Noha’s flat, she opened a door which, till then, de Saynthine thought was permanently closed. The door connected her flat with the adjoining flat. She went into it and he heard her say:
“Yes, my dress will be ready to-morrow evening.”
And a voice, which he did not at once recognize, asked:
“Do you know whether the d’Haumonts will be at Madame d’Erlande’s?”
“Yes, they’ll be there. I heard so from Mdlle. Violette, who saw Madame d’Haumont to-day.”
A few words were exchanged in a whisper, and Nina Noha returned and requested M. de Saynthine to go into the next flat. He saw a man with a pallid face and feverish eyes lying on a sofa.
“Oh, Monsieur le Comte!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, it’s I, come back to life again, or nearly so. I’ve had a narrow escape. That Captain d’Haumont shoots like a duffer, but we shall be even with him, don’t you think, de Saynthine?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”
“But who is the man? No d’Haumont has lived in France for the last fifty years. Here’s a man who came back from away in Guiana with millions. It seems that he has a splendid business out there in the forest. All the same, you can’t keep a business like that secret. I have had inquiries made. Who is d’Haumont? He is quite unknown in Guiana. Have you fellows in your wanderings through the country ever heard of d’Haumont’s business?”
“No, certainly not. His business must be on the Upper Oyapok, and even farther away. It’s a very uncivilized place. People never go there. But in those parts one stroke of luck is enough to make a man rich.”
“It’s very funny,” interposed Nina Noha. “I saw Captain d’Haumont for the first time at the fête at Valrose, and I had a sort of feeling that his face was not unfamiliar to me.”
“Oh, one often imagines such things,” returned de Saynthine, shaking his head.
“Listen to me, de Saynthine,” went on de Gorbio. “I have had the closest inquiries made about Captain d’Haumont. There is a gap in his life! We must know what that gap means, my lad.”
De Saynthine bowed.
“I will have a good try, Monsieur le Comte.” Having said which, he took his leave.
So they had sent for him in order to talk about d’Haumont! “You don’t catch me parting with that tit-bit to you,” he growled, thinking of his own schemes.
As he walked past Violette’s shop his thoughts turned once again to Giselle with a rancor which but immensely increased his longing to see the handsome mannequin. But she was no longer there.
As a matter of fact, while he was submitting to the caprice of Nina Noha, Giselle had been hastily sent for. Her mother was in an alarming state, and the poor girl had set out distraught. A few minutes later Captain and Madame d’Haumont came to the shop. Mdlle. Violette told them of the blow which was threatening her assistant, and Didier at once suggested that they should go and call on her. Somewhat surprised to see her husband display so much anxiety, Françoise none the less expressed her agreement with him; and Mdlle. Violette herself went with them to the Rue d’Angleterre.
Five minutes later they knocked at the door of a small flat on the fifth floor. A nurse asked them in, and they found themselves in a sort of entrance-lobby which contained a folding bedstead. It was here that Giselle slept.
Mlle. Violette had already slipped into the next room to see the mother, who appeared to be a little better. She had had a fit, but, according to the nurse, the doctor had given them a few words of hope. Mdlle. Violette came back to say that they could see the invalid.
They entered a room which was quite tastefully furnished, and Giselle’s mother welcomed them with a smile on her pale face. She expressed her gratitude to Didier for what he had done for her daughter and her self in words which brought tears to Françoise’s eyes. And she said a few nice things about Françoise and her marriage which stirred the latter to the depths of her being.
“But where is Giselle?” asked Didier.
“She went downstairs with the doctor. She probably wanted to go with him to learn the truth, the poor child. She fears that I am really ill, though we have done everything we can to hide the truth from her.”
Françoise and Mlle. Violette assured her that the southern sun would do wonders for her, but that she must not live in rooms where its light never penetrated; and they made arrangements for Madame Anthenay, for such was the mother’s name, to take up her abode in a small but comfortable flat on the Quay du Midi where she would be bathed in sunshine from the rising to the setting of the sun.
Suddenly they heard loud knocks on the landing door; and when it was opened Giselle flung herself into the room, her face convulsed and her frame shaken with a fit of sobbing.
“What’s happened?... What’s the matter?”
She endeavored to restrain herself, asking pardon of those whom she had not expected to see for giving way to such a silly exhibition of emotion.
“It’s nothing. I’ve had a great fright in the street.”
“That’s not true,” exclaimed Mlle. Violette. “I bet it’s that man again. He has been following you.”
“Well, yes, it is he. He has insulted me. He won’t leave me alone.”
Didier sprang from his chair, pale, and with a terrible look on his face that frightened Françoise.
“Who has insulted you?” he demanded in a smothered voice.
Mlle. Violette went to the window of the balcony on the roof which looked out on to the street. And she pointed to a man wearing a soft hat and an overcoat with the collar turned up, walking with his hands in his pockets, his stick under his arm.
“Yes, that’s the man!” she cried. “The wretch follows Giselle every day. We shall have to lodge a complaint.”
Declining to listen to his wife, who, greatly distressed, begged him to stay where he was, Didier rushed wildly out of the room.
* * * * *
In truth, in our ordinary, prosaic life men of nobility of mind and goodness of heart are ever eager to throw themselves into the cause of virtue. We may say of these men that they are true knights, for they never lose an opportunity of flying to the rescue of beauty in distress, untouched by any selfish motive or even by the least thought of reward. Such a man was Captain d’Haumont.
He had already “done enough” for Giselle by helping her to escape from poverty and enter a good business; and he was entitled to consider that any claim upon his charitable instincts had been fully met. He might have rested content with that. Giselle was old enough to protect herself from the annoyance of a chance wayfarer or even from the deep-laid plots of a rascal.
Indifference or contempt on the one hand and a feeling of weariness and wounded pride on the other are enough, as a general rule, to cool the first ardor of a villain who, in his self-complacency, thinks that no one is able to resist him.
Captain d’Haumont bounded wildly down the stairs, darted into the street, and looked about for his man, or rather Giselle’s man, with the gestures of a bulldog longing for a bite, and it might almost seem as if he had taken leave of his senses.
What was Françoise to think about it? She might very well say to herself: “Well, if he gets into such a state of excitement over a stranger to whom someone has been lacking in respect, what will he do when any man looks at me askance? Good gracious, he couldn’t possibly show more righteous indignation!” She became quite dejected by the reflection. But as she was, in her own way, inspired with sentiments which did not fall short in generosity those entertained by Captain d’Haumont, whom she loved more for himself than for herself — which is the crowning test of love — she quickly discarded thoughts which she regarded as selfish, and her sole apprehension was as to what lay in store, in this attack, for the man for whom she would have given her life.
Mlle. Giselle was no less anxious as to what might happen to her protector, and she expressed aloud her regret for not keeping silent; but she was not aware that Captain d’Haumont was in the r
oom; and, in particular, she had no idea that he would take the matter so much to heart. Her agitation, her apologies, her sorrow, were so sincere and expressed with such real candor that though Françoise might have felt within her as a result of her husband’s action — charitable, doubtless, but of an exaggerated charity — a natural antipathy to Giselle, she was the first to console her.
They both went downstairs to seek for news, in the same state of agitation and with sinking hearts. Upstairs, Madame Anthenay was almost fainting. Mdlle. Violette was the only person who retained any degree of self-command.
“What do you expect to happen? Captain d’Haumont will give the unmannerly brute a piece of his mind and the fellow will make off. You may be certain that we shan’t see that ‘follower’ again.”
As a matter of fact, at the sight of the Captain waving his stick like a madman, the man buried his face still deeper in the collar of his overcoat, and led away along a street branching off at an angle, and turned his hastening footsteps towards the light of one of the main roads.
Captain d’Haumont soon came up to him, but the night was dark.
“Don’t walk so fast, Monsieur,” Captain d’Haumont threw at him. “I’ve something to say to you.” At the sound of that voice the man gave a start but did not slacken his pace.
“Wait a moment, if you don’t mind,” went on d’Haumont. “I want to tell you that you are a coward, and if you don’t stop tormenting that girl you’ll have me to deal with.”
But the other made no attempt to halt. Far from it. He strode forward with redoubled speed.
“Do you hear?” pursued the mad Didier. “If I catch you following Mlle. Anthenay again I shall punch your head. Besides, you are not going to get away until I’ve seen your face.”
And as they came under the light of a street lamp, Captain d’Haumont raised his walking stick and knocked the man’s soft hat off on to the pavement, uncovering the upper part of his face.
At that moment d’Haumont ceased to wave his arms, and uttered a hollow groan as though he had received a blow in the stomach. The man on the other hand did not utter a word. He picked up his hat, rammed it on his head, and went on his way.
“The Parisian!” cried Captain d’Haumont in a choking voice. “The Parisian!”
And he retraced his steps staggering like a drunken man.
CHAPTER XIX
A BAD NIGHT FOLLOWED BY BAD DAYS
DIDIER MET THE two women at the corner of the street almost frightened out of their senses. He calmed them in a faltering voice. The man, he said, had rushed away as soon as he caught sight of him. The d’Haumonts at once took leave of Giselle, who implored them to forgive her foolish outburst.
In the taxi in which they drove back to Cape Ferrât, Didier and Françoise exchanged but an occasional remark. She was in a state of depression. She thought that her husband would be annoyed with her for her remarks regarding his exaggerated kindness to Giselle.
She took his hand in hers, and was no little surprised and even alarmed to feel that it was icy cold.
“Oh, good gracious, how cold you are! Aren’t you well, dear?”
“Yes, yes, I am quite well, I assure you.”
She put her hand to his forehead and found that it was covered with an icy perspiration. She was startled.
“Something must be the matter with you. Do say something. Why don’t you talk? I’ve never seen you like this before.”
He endeavored to make a jest of it, but his voice was quite different from his usual voice. She began to weep.
“I don’t know what has happened. I don’t know what is the matter with you. You are concealing something from me.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her in a sudden outburst of passion which was far from reassuring her.
“Heavens, you are crying too,” she said.
“Only because you are grieved. You must know I worship you.”
“Yes, yes. Tell me so! Say it again!”
“Can you doubt it, dearest?”
“I should die if I doubted it. But all the same, tell me that you love me. I like it. Take me in your arms again and kiss me... kiss me. Let us mingle our tears. It’s so good.”
“What nonsense we talk! We don’t know why we are crying. We are behaving like children. It’s a shame.”
“So, my love, it’s true. You are not hiding anything from me. You didn’t face that wretched man?”
“No, I scarcely saw him. He literally took to his heels. I advised him not to show himself in this quarter again, that’s all. We’ll say no more about it.”
“Don’t let’s speak of him.”
They dropped the subject, and indeed the rest of the drive to the villa was passed in silence. Then, when they were in the house, she said:
“Listen, dear, you must let me take care of you. A moment ago you were as cold as ice, and now your hands are burning. You are still suffering from fever. It’s only a short time since you recovered from your wounds, and we are behaving very unwisely. You must have caught a cold on leaving Madame d’Erlande’s.... But what are you doing? Leave the doors. The servants will close them.”
He was surprised to see himself locking the doors like a child who is overcome with fear.
And yet he had become slightly more composed. He longed to remain in doubt. He tried to doubt still. Might he not have made a mistake, for after all the vision of that man’s face under the light of the street lamp was but a momentary one. It was not even a face. A forehead, a pair of eyes, that was all. Was that enough to convince him that he had encountered the Parisian? Surely not. He had to reckon with freaks of resemblance, as well as his own state of mind, ever ready to conjure up dangers and to imagine that they were near.
The Parisian at Nice! No, it was out of the question. The man had been captured and taken back to prison. The newspapers contained a report of the occurrence. And, besides, if the Parisian were at Nice would he not have been occupied in hunting different game from Giselle? Captain d’Haumont would have heard something about him.
Thus his thoughts ran on. Françoise’s love, the anxious attentions with which she enveloped him, while they touched his heart also relaxed the tension of his nerves. They were perfectly happy and tranquil; a great peace fell upon them. And he could no longer believe that anything untoward would befall him. He kept quite quiet, took his medicine, allowed himself to be nursed, and — worn out by the new excitement which physically and mentally weighed down upon him — fell asleep.
But Françoise did not fall asleep.
She listened to his irregular breathing; she watched the painful slumber in which the man beside her lay. Resting on her elbow, she bent over the beloved face, distorted by strange dreams, with an ever-increasing anguish which wrung her heart and almost stifled her.
What frightful visions were passing before those closed eyes and the heaving chest? She had never watched her husband asleep. The sight was terrifying.
And then his face changed so that she did not recognize it, and she was appalled. Deep furrows, which she had never seen before, plowed his forehead and temples and the corners of his mouth. The face which, when it was in repose, was calm and dignified and kept under control by a strong, brave mind, was distorted as if the spirit of fear had taken possession of it at a moment when the sentinel was no longer on guard.
It was impossible for her to remain any further beside that tortured face which was unknown to her, and she wakened Didier so as to see once more the face as she knew it — the face of the man she had married.
Didier uttered a hollow groan and opened his haggard eyes. By the light of the night-lamp she watched him come to himself from his nightmare like a swimmer who rises to the surface of the waters and is able at last to breathe again.
“Didier... Didier... What’s the matter? Don’t you recognize me? It’s I... Françoise.” Then his face unbent and his eyes were filled once more with the soft light which illumined them whenever his gaze fell upon her.
“I’ve had such an awful dream, dearest.”
“Yes, it was awful. That’s why I woke you up.”
“What did I say? What was I talking about?”
“You said nothing, but you were suffering and sighing and groaning terribly.”
Françoise’s gentle voice seemed to drive away for good and all the cruel shadows of the night.
“But what were you dreaming about?” she asked.
“I had the worst dream that it is possible to conceive, dear. I dreamt that you had ceased to love me.”
“Oh, my Didier!”
She took him in her arms and he lay his head upon her breast.
“Listen to my heart,” she said.
They listened in silence. Didier did not speak again, and he pretended to yield to a sweet and refreshing sleep. But he did not sleep. He would not allow himself to sleep. He feared to be betrayed by his dreams....
She, too, closed her eyes and made believe to sleep, and he really thought that she was asleep, but she knew that he was still awake.
They were deceiving each other for the first time in their married life. Didier, like a sufferer who seeks a corner in which to lie down so as to suffer less, laid down his secret there with her, and from that moment she did not doubt that the secret was worthy of its refuge.
With a man of Didier’s character — assuming that there was a secret which made him suffer in his dreams as he lay beside the woman he loved — it could only be some trouble which it was his duty to hide from her but which, if she knew what it was, would not make her blush for him.
Ever since Didier’s strange behaviour at the beginning of what might be called their engagement, she fancied that there was something mysterious in his past life. She persisted in thinking that it was a story of some former woman — of some bad woman of course — who had taken advantage of Didier’s goodness, and even now was trying to hold him up to ransom. Whether this was the explanation or not, she felt convinced that Didier was the victim.
At an early hour next morning Captain d’Haumont was in Nice. He waited to see Giselle at the corner of the Rue d’Angleterre and the Rue Bardin, pacing up and down outside a fashionable hairdressing and massage establishment. The sound of his footsteps coming and going put the porter in a general flutter.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 201
