Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “I tried different ways of doing my hair. I racked my memory for types of ugliness, whom it would not have been a disgrace to resemble. And finally I said to myself that I was not much uglier than Verlaine, who was loved, who knew what love was — absolute love, that is, if one can believe him when he says, ‘Ah, the exquisite days of indescribable happiness when our lips met! How blue was the sky! How great the hope!’ Etc., etc.

  “And as for that mouth of Verlaine’s — well, peace be to his ashes, for he is to me the greatest of poets.

  “Just the same I said to myself, if he was loved, it was certainly not for his handsome looks. Therefore, there are women who are capable of permitting themselves to be won uniquely by a poet’s dream, indifferent to the rough exterior which had one day been created by an ironical and unkind nature. But, naturally, one would have to have the opportunity of making oneself understood, and here is how I brought about this opportunity.

  “My artistic bookbindings had been awarded first prize at the last bookbinders’ exhibition. I had achieved great success. Well then, I inserted some advertisements in the daily papers for female pupils. I had not long to wait. The day following my advertisement, a young girl called. Her name was Mademoiselle Henriette Havard. She was charming, and evidently very intelligent. She said that she had lost her parents and, being dependent on an old aunt, was anxious to earn her own living, and she suggested that, at the same time, she should be my pupil and my assistant. The matter was soon settled.

  “I own a little villa in the suburbs of Paris on the edge of a wood quite close to a pond. It is a rather deserted spot, but I like solitude, and I could quite imagine that I should like it even more with this pretty girl. Besides, it was there that I did my work all through the summer. So I made an appointment to meet Henriette on the next day.

  “While we talked on that evening I stood in the dim light, knowing that the next day in the country she would see me in full daylight. She did, and so well that after the next day I never saw her again. I waited three days for her. She had given me her aunt’s address, so I went to the aunt and asked for news of her niece. She replied, rather indifferently, that she had not seen her again. I did not insist, as I did not want to appear more anxious than she was.

  “Meanwhile another pupil came — Madame Clair Thomassin — a young and pretty widow. She stayed with me one day. Two days later a gentleman in his fifties came to ask me some questions concerning Madame Clair, and when I told him that I had heard nothing of her since she left me he went away very, very sad.

  “Well, I had four more women pupils. One stayed five days, two others not more than twenty-four hours, and the last one remained three weeks. With this one I came near believing that the miracle was accomplished. But there! She also vanished like the others. In the case of this last one, I wanted to feel that my conscience was clear, so I investigated. But I could not find out, in fact no one could find out, what had become of her.

  “And now, by this time I began to feel a great, a secret anguish — I will not hide it. I did not dare to carry my investigation farther, fearing to learn that the three others had also disappeared. Three had already disappeared to my knowledge. That was enough! It was bad enough that women should flee from me because I am ugly, but that they should flee to the end of the world, that they should flee even to suicide, that was beyond all, all!

  “What could one think? Beyond this hypothesis what could I think? Put yourself in my place. It was frightful! But then, if for some reason or another, let us say for six other reasons, they had all committed suicide, their bodies would have been found, but they have not been found, neither dead nor alive.

  “Great Heavens! I speak as though I were sure of the fate of the other three! Well, yes, in the depth of my heart, I believe that tire same mystery links all six of them — the same mystery of death. And am I the only one to think this? Fortunately it is all so formidable, so absurd, that I don’t want to think of it any more. I found that a very good way not to think of it is to become absorbed in the vision and the love of Christine. And now —

  “And now, my eyes never leave the watchmaker’s door. To-day is Sunday. She will be going out very soon, going to mass with her father and the sawbones. Ah, there she is! There she is, with her madonna-like brow and serene look! Sawbones is carrying her prayer book. I also would go to confess for her. But to-day I shall not follow them. I shall remain behind my curtains. I shall watch and I shall surely see that man of last night come out. And then — we shall see what we will do.

  “For a half hour I have been waiting for him to come out. Still nothing has happened. To-day is Sunday, and the shop presents an entire wooden front, for all the shutters are up, even the one over the glass door. And that door does not open. What is he waiting for? The street is deserted, absolutely deserted, and he can only come out by that door. For the villa, which is occupied by this strange family, is so built that there is no other exit than the one which I am watching.

  “Truly, they live shut up there as though in a prison. And as for the garden beyond — if one can call a quadrangle planted with three trees a garden — it makes one think of a back yard with its two high walls shutting it in and hiding it from all eyes.

  “In days gone by the corner of the building in which the watchmaker and his family live, and this spot of garden, had all been a part of the famous Coulteray mansion, the main entrance of which is on the Bethune Quays. This mansion still belongs — an unusual thing, which cannot be said of any other old mansion on the Isle of Saint Louis — to the last representative of the great family, who is, as we know, the present Marquis de Coulteray. This Georges-Marie-Vincent de Coulteray had been living in India, and had recently married the youngest daughter of the Governor of Delhi, Miss Elizabeth Clavendish.

  “The only occasion on which I had ever seen the marquis and marchioness was while I was walking on the quays one evening at the very moment when they were getting into their magnificent car. The electric lamp lit up the interior.

  “The marchioness, who appeared to me to be rather languid, was not uninteresting. She had that sort of ethereal beauty which is peculiar to certain English women, but which is gradually disappearing, owing to this era of sports. In contrast to this Walter Scott heroine, the marquis, despite his premature gray hair, seemed a robust, keenly alert figure.

  “The blood circulated freely in his red face, and the bright, steely look in his eyes made him appear astonishingly young and energetic for a man of his fifty years and more. Georges-Marie-Vincent was the great-grandson of that celebrated Marquis de Coulteray who, in the reign of Louis XV, had, among other fancies, separated from his wife.

  “She would not hear of a divorce, nor would she leave the conjugal domicile. So they were separated by this high wall, which divided the property in two. The unfortunate lady took refuge in the little villa, where she died in voluntary sequestration. And it was here at night, when her father and fiancé had retired, that the virtuous Christine received her lover.

  “In order to get out of the love prison this man, for whose appearance I am still waiting, must cross this threshold. He makes me wait a long time, hidden behind my curtain. By my faith, an hour has gone by and I have not seen the watchmaker’s door open. And now the watchmaker, himself, comes back from the church with proud Christine and that bold fiancé.

  “So the gentleman is apparently going to spend the rest of the day in the wardrobe. I reflect that, although I have not seen Christine’s mysterious guest come out of the house, neither have I seen him go in, and this makes me wonder how long the strange romance has been going on in the depth of the wardrobe.

  “I find myself laughing ferociously as I think of women in general, and this one in particular — this divine Christine who fills my heart. I find myself wishing that some catastrophe might happen to her for the relief of my own soul and the universal conscience. Anyway, I shall not go out to-day.

  “Five o’clock! What has just happened is the las
t thing expected. She came! She came here! But we must not anticipate, for it is worth the telling, and I have a presentiment that I have many more astonishing situations in store for me.

  “Usually on Sunday afternoons the Norberts, father and daughter, and Jacques Cotentin, the sawbones sweetheart, all go out for a walk. But to-day the old man and Jacques went alone. The daughter came to the door with them, spoke a few pleasant words and smiled her queenly smile. Then she closed the shop door. With a bound I had reached my observatory in the roof above.

  “I got there just in time to see her going through the little garden. I watched her climb the outside staircase leading to the studio on the top floor of the villa in the rear. The glass door was already wide open on the balcony, and I could see the wardrobe.

  “Without a moment’s hesitation she opened it and the man stepped out.

  CHAPTER III

  A SOMBER TRAGEDY

  “SHE TOOK HIM by the hand and said something close to his ear. Undoubtedly she was telling him that they had the house to themselves for a few hours, for he went straight to the balcony, and, leaning on the railing, looked down into the garden very thoughtfully. This time I could see him distinctly and in detail. My! She certainly knew how to choose her lovers, this beautiful Christine.

  “Here was one who matched her in height, and I should not imagine that any daughter of Eve could desire a better. The handsomest man in the world! Oh! When I saw that royal carriage, that magnificent specimen of humanity, I swear that I cursed the Creator who has made me what I am, and who has given to this other the face of victory.

  “The man is in the fullness of his strength; every movement is in perfect harmony, and his poise is perfect. Beside him Christine, who has always impressed me with her poise, seems a foolish little thing. Truly, I do not recognize her, for it seems as though she has changed her nature. With a childish gesture she calls to him:

  “‘Gabriel!’

  “And upon my word, this young man of about thirty is as beautiful as the angel Gabriel. How handsome they both are! What a couple!

  “Now I must tell you how Gabriel is dressed, for here again is something quite out of the ordinary. He is enveloped from head to foot in a cloak after the style of those worn during the time of the Revolution, and he also wears, as in those days, top boots.

  “Upon seeing him step out of the wardrobe in the rear of this old building, so hidden on the Isle of Saint Louis, one might have thought that one was witnessing an exploit of the famous Chevalier de Fersen, mysteriously arriving in the capital to help the royal prisoner escape. And even Christine’s dress, with its Marie Antoinette fichu crossed over her partly bare chest, lent itself to the illusion.

  “What game are they playing? How did it begin? How will it end? I don’t understand it at all.

  “The man has not yet spoken a word to her, but he obeys her.

  “Gabriel walks down the stairs ahead of Christine.

  “Now both of them are in the garden. They sit down under a plane tree at a small table covered with a cloth, upon which still remains some fruit and bottles. I can’t see him very well. I can see her better. She turns to him, talks to him, sits close beside him. I can see their backs. The tree is in my way. They do not move. They sit there for some time. At last they get up. They hold each other’s hands. They go up the staircase, she still retaining her hold on his hand. And it is she who draws him into the studio and closes the door again.

  “I went downstairs again like a madman. I went into my workshop and wept. These idiotic poets say that one weeps tears of blood. Oh, how well they know!

  “Then all of a sudden some one knocked on the glass door of my shop. It was she! She! She! She, who had never spoken a word to me, who had always passed me as though I did not exist.

  “I opened the door and clung to it to prevent myself from falling. She saw me there, swaying, haggard, my eyes all red. I am horrible! I must have been hideous! But she had supreme pity for me. She appeared not to notice anything, and with that air of calm nobility which in turn delights me, crushes me, and disgusts me, she said:

  “‘Monsieur Benedict Masson, you are an artist. I am confiding to your care what I value more than anything in the bookcase — these five Verlaines, which I want you to arrange according to your taste, which I know is perfect. But one of these days will you be kind enough to show me your moroccos, so that I may choose a different color for each work?’

  “With clumsy movements I went hastily over to the small stock of leathers which I had on hand.

  “As I did so she lifted her beautiful white hand, saying:

  “‘No, not to-day. You will pardon me, but I am in a hurry.’

  “And with an exquisite smile on her Madonna-like face she left me.

  “I had not uttered a word. I seemed dazed. My equilibrium was upset. But she was absolutely self-possessed — she needed all her coolness to navigate serenely through such an affair.

  “That night, all unexpectedly, I became a witness to the swiftest and most somber of tragedies.

  “It was a little after midnight. I was upstairs, suffering all manner of tortures, while a light on the top floor of the villa indicated that Christine had not yet retired. Suddenly, down below in the moonlight which flooded the garden, I perceived old Norbert.

  He began to climb the stairs like a cat. He opened the studio door, and I could hear Christine cry:

  ‘“Why, father!’

  “But, without paying any attention to her, Norbert swung a formidable weapon, which appeared to be something like bronze and iron, above his head. As he brought down the weapon Christine cried beseechingly:

  “‘Don’t kill him!’

  “A figure lurched forward. The man rolled on the balcony, stretching out his arms, but the terrible weapon continued to batter him.

  “At last he ceased to move. Christine was in a frenzy of despair.

  “There was a strange silence.

  “The old man now stood with his arms crossed, glaring upon the scene like a madman.

  “At this moment Jacques came up from his apartment and took part in the scene. Christine, who had knelt down beside the prostrate form, rose to her feet, saying:

  “‘Father has killed him!’

  “Then the old man said distinctly:

  “‘He no longer obeys me. And it is all your fault. I should have known.’

  “The sweetheart, the sawbones, said nothing. He gathered up the body and pushed it into the studio. And then they all went in themselves. They are still in there at the moment that I write these lines.

  CHAPTER IV

  SECRET OF THE CHEST

  “GABRIEL IS DEAD! Gabriel is dead! The old man made a hash of him. I can only consider this important fact. The rest may be explained later if it becomes absolutely necessary, but, as far as I’m concerned, it is only important for me to know that Gabriel is dead. He no longer stands between me and Christine. And in what way has my cause been advanced by this? What matters!

  “I am revived. I shall never have to see her again in the company of this handsome young man, who is as handsome as a god! What will they do with the corpse? I have watched all night, but the studio door has not reopened.

  “At last, utterly worn out with fatigue and emotion, I descended to my room, threw myself on my bed and slept, and when I woke my heart was still gay. For Gabriel was dead.

  “These words were to me a veritable cry of triumph on the threshold of a renewed life. The heart which beats in my breast is now calm and joyful. But how dare I write such fiery words? How can I feel happy at such a murder? Oh, well — I must become a disciple of Schelling’s principle that ‘Great minds are above laws.’ Then, am I a great mind? Perhaps yes. Perhaps no. But of one thing I am sure — I am a great outcast.

  “This fact alone should bring me rights which ordinary people may not understand. Since I am in this world I have been tempted — but that is enough.

  I must beware. I must come down to earth. Here is t
he charwoman knocking at the door of his store.

  “Ordinarily at this time — it is now eight o’clock — the old watchmaker is already behind his curtain, bent over his square wheels, and Madame Langlois has only to push open the door. But to-day the shutters are still up. Mother Langlois, whom I know very well, because she does my cleaning also, is quite puzzled about it. She knocks again, knocks impatiently with her wrinkled fists, until at last they open the door for her. It is the old man who comes.

  “She goes in, and the sawbones comes out immediately, almost on the run. He must be late for his classes. I have a good look at him as he goes by. Apart from his drawn brows he seems to me to be as insignificant as on any other day.

  “The shop door remains partly open. I don’t see the old man now. Ah, if I could only enter there. I who know. What might I not see? They will undoubtedly clean up, so that Madame Langlois will see nothing. She will not! But I —

  “Acting on a sudden impulse, I snatch up my stock of leathers, dash across the street, and enter the house of murder. I go through the shop and the little dining room in the rear, where Madame Langlois is already at work. Broom in hand, she turns and calls to me as I run through, but I am already in the garden.

  “I bump into old man Norbert, who is dumbfounded that any one should dare to pass through his shop, enter his garden, and walk through it as though they were at home.

  “‘What do you want, monsieur?’ he finally stammers, fixing his gray eyes on me with a look of intense hostility.

  “‘Monsieur, I am the bookbinder.’

  “‘But I thought that my daughter had come to an understanding with you?’ he demanded. Then he kept on muttering something between his teeth, from which I gathered that Christine had made her visit to me an excuse for not accompanying the watchmaker and his nephew on their Sunday walk.

  “At this moment a voice from above called out:

  “‘Let the gentleman come up, father.’