Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “Thank you, M. Hilaire,” said the old spinster. “I have come to ask you to do the Marchioness a favor.”

  “Out with it quickly,” said Hilaire, his face turned towards the door, fearing lest his irascible spouse should appear.

  “While out driving in the evening near the Grand Parc or coming from the theatre the Marchioness has on several occasions met an old man, bowed down with age, selling olives and peanuts. She would like to know who this man is, his exact circumstances, his name and where he lives; and she thought of you because you were so devoted to her until you took up with this odious politics.”

  “That will do, Mlle Jacqueline,” cried M. Hilaire. “I won’t allow you to say that I am no longer devoted to the Marchioness. I shall never forget that when we were living in Dieppe she became the godmother of our poor boy, who for that matter was not spared to enjoy such distinguished patronage, for he caught whooping-cough and died. Peace to his memory!... I will gladly do the small service the Marchioness asks. To-morrow, or next day at latest, she shall know what she desires to know. Tell her that from me.”

  He opened the door and they both went back to the shop.

  “I assure you, Mlle Jacqueline,” said M. Hilaire in a loud voice, “I assure you that we can’t reduce our prices. Trade generally is in a very bad way.”

  Thus he escorted Mlle Jacqueline to the street door and then returned to the counter. But Mme Hilaire said no word. She did not even look at him, continuing to add up her figures. It was the beginning of his punishment and he knew that it would be dire. He gave a sigh, but Mme Hilaire refused to hear it, for her affectation of deafness would be a part of his punishment. And that was not the only thing. To her deafness and silence she would add starvation — no less than that.

  When luncheon-time came Mme Hilaire would declare that she was not hungry, and indeed would sit at table but refuse to touch anything. And at dinner-time she would likewise decline food, as though she were on hunger strike, so that at ten o’clock, not having had a bite all day, which was indeed rash for a woman accustomed to deny herself nothing, she would faint and collapse on the floor.

  It was at this moment that M. Hilaire would rush up to his victim uttering cries of despair so that she would reopen her eyes and mouth. The eyes would be listless and the mouth would say in a lifeless voice: “Carry me to my room!”

  The room was on the first floor, and Mme Hilaire weighed fifteen stone. That was why M. Hilaire sighed.

  CHAPTER IX

  DANCING ON A VOLCANO

  THAT SATURDAY WAS particularly disturbing for M. Hilaire. Had his wife been in better humor he might have hoped to induce her to join him and see some dancing in one of the establishments in the Grand Parc, but after the scene between them he dared not think of it.

  The news in the evening became so bad and the echo of rumours from the chief suburbs so threatening that M. Hilaire was in no way surprised when M. Tholosée entered his shop holding in his hand the latest edition of a newspaper, wherein it was stated once again that the Republic must be saved.

  M. Tholosée had come to tell M. Hilaire that the Clubs in every district were being specially summoned to meet that same evening with a view of passing resolutions in support of the Government and the Commission of Inquiry and of forcing the hands of both, if necessary, to prosecute the assassins of Carlier and Bonchamps.

  He advised M. Hilaire, as the secretary, to be at the Club in good time, not later than half-past seven, and then, in increasing excitement, went on to the Arsenal Club. But he left M. Hilaire in a state of elation.

  On the plea of having to go to the Club to fulfil “unavoidable” duties, he would leave the shop early; and indeed he would be glad to substitute a night of pleasure, of song and dance, in the Grand Parc for one which promised first to be painful and then entirely political. He would go to the ball with his friends Barkimel and Florent, whose presence would not prevent him from pursuing his inquiries.

  Taking advantage of the message delivered by Tholosée in his wife’s presence, and calculating that her fainting-fit usually occurred about half-past eight, after dinner he said:

  “I can’t stay to dinner, you see, Virginie. Besides, like you, I am not hungry to-day. I’ll be off to the Arsenal Club at half-past seven.”

  But at half-past seven he was compelled to lower his tone, for the shop doors having been closed, he saw Mme Hilaire slip the key of the little door in the iron shutter into her pocket and make for the dining-room, where the maidservant had just laid a smoking soup tureen.

  Without seeming to be concerned by the appetizing odour of vegetable soup, Mme Hilaire sat down and began to read the newspaper brought by M. Tholosée. M. Hilaire watched her with a look of consternation.

  “Virginie, have you finished hurting my feelings?” he asked in his meekest and most ingratiating tone. “You know I ought to be at the Club at half-past seven. Why do you refuse to give me the key of the door? I must be making a move.”

  Silence of Virginie.

  “I shall be censured and got rid of, and a lot of good that will do you, seeing you wish your husband to be a municipal councillor. Won’t you eat anything? Presently we shall have the usual trouble again, for worn out by lack of food, overcome by weakness, and a victim of your pride, you will collapse to the floor, and once more I who adore you will think you are dying.”

  As a matter of fact Virginie suddenly let her head sink on her shoulder, opened her mouth as to breathe her last, showed her listless eyes, and then dropped to the floor with sufficient cleverness, however, to avoid breaking the chair.

  “There! What did I tell you!” cried M. Hilaire, beside himself.

  On this occasion he forbore to utter the usual cries of despair, but displayed every sign of intense exasperation. As ill-luck would have it a small barrel of treacle stood beside him in which lay the scoop used for serving it. He filled the scoop with a generous supply of the liquid and flung it with all his might at Mme Hilaire’s inanimate face. End of the good lady’s silence and her immediate resurrection.

  “Villain! Scoundrel!” she cried.

  “At last you have found your tongue.”

  Virginie, rising without assistance to her feet, spluttered forth insults mingled with treacle dripping down on all sides, and made a rush at her husband. But he still held the scoop in his hand, and calmly declared that he would not hesitate to sacrifice the rest of the barrel if she refused to come to her senses. Then, vanquished, she burst into tears. Mme Hilaire, weeping, her face covered with treacle, was no pleasant sight, but it softened her husband’s heart.

  “Come, Dolly,” he said, more touched than he ought to have been at such a moment if he wished to reap the full benefit of his victory. “I see what it is — you want me to take you up to your room as usual.” And he carried her up to the first floor, exhibiting a strength far beyond the ordinary in a man of his ripe years.

  M. Hilaire did not descend again until he opened the shop next morning. On Sundays the staff was a small one, and the shop was closed at midday. Mme Hilaire appeared in her turn. She made her way to the cash desk with a look of satisfaction and careless grace that delighted them all, and not least M. Hilaire.

  “In reality she is not a bad soul,” he thought. “She never bears malice.”

  Just then Mlle Jacqueline came in, carrying her prayer-book in her hand. M. Hilaire looked cautiously around and then hastened to her and said in an undertone:

  “I know nothing yet, Mlle Jacqueline. I couldn’t get out last night, but to-night — you may rely on me. And he added aloud: “What can I do for you, Mlle Jacqueline?”

  But suddenly he realized that his ruse was forced. On her side Mlle Jacqueline reddened. She stammered:

  “I want some almonds, raisins and filbert nuts.”

  “At four francs a pound?”

  “Yes.”

  As he served her he risked casting a glance in the direction of the cash desk. Mme Hilaire was adding up her figures. Presumabl
y she had observed nothing.

  “Quick — go!”

  Jacqueline left the shop. M. Hilaire returned to the cash desk, hands in pockets, a look of unconcern on his face.

  “If you like, my dear Virginie, we’ll have a breath of fresh air this afternoon,” he said.

  Silence of Virginie.

  “I suggest taking you for a drive.”

  Silence of Virginie.

  “To-night we could go to the theatre.”

  Silence of Virginie.

  “To the ball.”

  Silence of Virginie.

  M. Hilaire could restrain himself no longer. He slapped his thigh, folded his arms and cried:

  “So you’re at it again, are you?” And in a flash he darted into the dining-room, took off his apron, and put on his coat and Sunday bowler-hat, which were hanging on a peg. A minute later he was in the street.

  “Monsier Hilaire!” shouted his wife.

  He made no answer to her appeal which he considered belated, but hurried on. At the corner of the Rue St. Antoine he met Barkimel and Florent on their way to him, scared by the news of the day.

  “We are dancing on a volcano,” exclaimed M. Barkimel.

  “Let’s dance on anything you like as long as we dance,” returned M. Hilaire.

  He drew them away with him. That Sunday morning, in spite of the early hour, the streets were already thronged with an idle, anxious crowd ready to give ear to every rumour, easily stirred, and betraying their excitement by cries, clamour and song.

  Troops were moved in readiness for every eventuality. Two battalions which had left their barracks to strengthen the Republican Guard at the Palais Bourbon, where the Commission of Inquiry was sitting, were loudly cheered. Flottard, the civilian Governor, clad in a magnificent uniform suggestive of that of a Commissary-General of the Army, and riding between two Generals, was cheered and hooted in turn. Vigorous fisticuffs were exchanged more or less everywhere. Special editions of the papers contained reports of the work of the Commission of Inquiry.

  Notwithstanding the exceptional secrecy with which the Commission had shrouded its labors, it was known that it had resolved to demand at the sitting on Monday the suspension of Parliamentary privilege and inviolability in the case of over one hundred and fifty Senators and Deputies whose names were given and who were held responsible for Carlier’s assassination. The list was headed by the name of Major Jacques de Touchais....

  But to return to Hilaire, Barkimel and Florent. On arriving at the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville they were so roughly hustled that they determined to make for the left bank of the Seine. But here they found the Sorbonne in a ferment, and to escape a cavalry charge were obliged to take a refuge in a courtyard. They then observed that they were on the premises of the Francs Archers Club and had lost M. Hilaire, who had suddenly disappeared.

  Paris was crowded with clubs secretly supported by international Communists waiting for their hour to come.... Popular clubs had established their tyrannical influence in every district, and their spokesmen did not hesitate to declare that “the National Convention had done no good until it was dominated by the Commune.” From that to advocating government by municipality was not far, not to mention that these clubs made it their business to send delegates to interview the Government, which was obliged to receive them. They presented their demands and resolutions, and even their denunciations, to the Government. From denunciation to indictment was not far either....

  M. Florent shook his head at M. Barkimel’s lamentations.

  “Whatever they do they won’t come near the work of the Jacobin Club of despotic memory. The members of the Committee of Public Safety came to that club to take the people’s orders, and obtained from it a list of suspects, profiteers and agents of Pitt and Cobourg, whom the Revolutionary Tribunal made it its business to send to the guillotine.”

  In reality M. Florent was shaking in his shoes. His argument was intended to depreciate the bravado of M. Hilaire, secretary of the Arsenal Club, and to surprise M. Barkimel by its erudition. But he began to be no more easy in his mind than his friend Barkimel; and it was he who first suggested leaving the courtyard where a mob orator was making a speech.

  “Citizens, the people alone enjoy the privilege of freedom from error. The people must send Commissioners into the provinces. They must dismiss every General and replace him by a son of the people as was done by the French in ‘93. Soldiers must elect their own officers, and we shall no longer have to reckon with the adventure of a Major Jacques, a disgrace to the Republic. Citizens, the eyes of the world are upon you. You are the admiration of the universe. And it is the University and Francs Archers Clubs that will save France and Europe from the last efforts of tyranny.”

  “Let’s go,” whispered M. Florent, seizing M. Barkimel by the skirt of his coat.

  “Yes, let’s go,” shivered M. Barkimel. “The man frightens me. He talks like a Bolshevist.”

  They turned towards the exit. They had lost their safeguard, the worthy M. Hilaire, whose friendly protection they valued above everything else, and whose company they assiduously cultivated on account of his position at the Arsenal Club. They came upon him again on the pavement looking to right and left and seemingly in some difficulty.

  “Have you seen an old fellow with tinted spectacles, bent with age, a small tub of olives and peanuts under his arm? A little while ago he entered the courtyard of the Francs Archers Club to say a word to a couple of men standing near you. I ran after him, but the two men hustled me and I lost sight of him. I came back to see the two men, but couldn’t find them again either.”

  “What do you want the peanut dealer for?” asked M. Florent.

  “Well, to buy some peanuts from him,” returned M. Hilaire.

  Suddenly he uttered a cry and slipped with surprising agility among a group of people. Barkimel and Florent thought then they had lost him once more. But they came up to him again on the quay, and he signalled to them to keep quiet and say nothing. Then they observed that he was following two persons of singular appearance and manner.

  To begin with, these two men, judged from their manner of walking with a roll and working their jaws as though they were chewing the inevitable quid of tobacco, were sailors. But their faces were without that look of simple good-humor characteristic of seamen enjoying themselves in town. Their entire personality exhaled something formidable, and at first sight they inspired little confidence. Finally, they spoke the language of hooligans.

  Barkimel and Florent failed to understand what interest M. Hilaire could have in pursuing these redoubtable rascals, but they followed their leader. M. Hilaire listened carefully to what was being said ahead of him, although Barkimel and Florent were convinced that he understood the conversation as little as they did.

  “My dear Jean Jean, Daddy doesn’t seem to be having much fun to-day. He placed twelve peanuts on the table of the bloke speechifying at the Francs Archers Club.”

  “Twelve — that’s one less than thirteen,” returned Polydore.

  “And in my opinion when a man receives thirteen of ’em he won’t make old bones.”

  “You saw how pale the babbler turned. I bet you have a bloke there who wanted to get rid of Cravely, and Daddy wasn’t pleased.”

  “Very likely. He’s no longer in the know. He’s just had five years in quod, and from what I can hear had nothing better to do than go back to the suburbs and find his old place in the Rue St. Margot. That’s where Daddy found him.”

  “Yes, now he’s got to run straight for the Major.” Suddenly they looked round, for it seemed to them that they were being too closely followed.

  They cast so sharp a glance at Barkimel and Florent that they had neither the strength to advance nor to retire.

  “Well, what’s the matter now?” said M. Hilaire.

  “Aren’t we going to leave the quays soon?” asked M. Barkimel in a trembling voice.

  “I suggest a little turn in the Bois de Boulogne before lunch,” sa
id M. Florent.

  “Well, that suits me,” said M. Hilaire at once, and in a couple of leaps was on the steps of an omnibus which had pulled up and in which Jean Jean and Polydore had entered.

  The two friends followed, and were not a little dismayed to find themselves on the platform beside the two terrible sailors who this time glared at them with a grim expression on their faces.

  “Haven’t you a weakness for police spies?” said Jean Jean to Polydore.

  “Not more than you have, old man,” returned Polydore. “And I’ll tell you a little story that’ll make you split your sides.”

  “I know it,” said Polydore. “It’s about that fellow Gésier, who only had one eye and was told: ‘Follow him day and night and use your eye.’”

  “That’s it. Poor Gésier! He followed me day and night. But he’ll never use that eye again. Do you remember that kick?”

  “What do you think! The police of every district can leave us alone. We’re doing no harm. We are heroes! We were in the Subdamoun campaign. And we have been thanked by the Government.”

  “I’ll tell you a good thing, Polydore. Suppose we give them a good dressing?”

  “I’m getting out,” said M. Barkimel, his teeth chattering.

  “We’ll get out at the next stop,” said M. Florent, feeling very uncomfortable.

  “So you’re leaving me,” said M. Hilaire aloud. “I thought you were going to have a turn in the Bois de Boulogne.”

  “I don’t feel like it now,” said M. Barkimel.

  At the next stopping-place Barkimel and Florent hurried off the car. They were joined by M. Hilaire, who laughed at their fears.

  “Well, you are a pair of cowards.”

  “I wonder what sort of pleasure you can find in listening to such an awful talk,” exclaimed M. Florent after the car had noisily disappeared.

  “Look here, my dear fellow,” said M. Hilaire, who seemed to have some idea of his own, “I’ll stand you a lunch in a little restaurant opposite Batignolles railway station which makes a specialty of calves’ head, and you can tell me what you think of it.”