“I tell you now what I told you before. I saw that man’s face once. I shall remember it all my life. When he came here in my courtyard all dressed up like a savage, like a real redskin — that’s why they call him that — looking for you everywhere. I tell you again that I hope, for your sake, that she doesn’t disappear like the others.”
“Great name of a name! But what if he makes them disappear himself?”
“All the more reason.”
“Well, good-by till to-morrow, Mother Mouche. I’ll come and tell you what happens. I’ll watch out for the little one when she goes on her errands at Corbillieres.”
But Mother Mouche did not see Father Violette the next day, nor the following day. She was never to see him again.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE CORPSE
WELL, THEN, AS the youngster remarked, who was leading Christine along the muddy paths by the swamps after she got to Corbillieres, they had not seen Annie since the night before last.
So let us continue on the way with Christine, toward the abode of Benedict Masson, which, in the falling night, merged its dismal shadow with the gloomy reflections of the pond’s black waters.
The wind whistled with greater and greater violence, cutting and cold; battering the mournful weeping willows — shivering phantoms which sent forth their plaintive notes above the bent rushes; howling, sometimes whistling as if they had passed over thousands and thousands of rushes, sometimes sighing as if they were giving forth the last breath of the earth and the waters, and then resuming with unleashed fury.
They had been walking for half an hour. Young Phillippe, splashing through the mud, was in his element; Christine trying to avoid the pools, her skirts flapping like a flag, both hands on her traveling hat, was battling with the wind which seemed to have come to a definite decision to snatch it from her — when, suddenly she stopped.
Above the dismal abode of Benedict Masson, a burst of flames was soaring; flames, cinders, sparks, escaping with a dismal roar from one of the chimneys which hung over the roof. And this conflagration, blown from one side to the other by the sudden gusts of wind, seemed ready to devour the house.
“The chimney’s on fire!” cried the youngster. “And perhaps he don’t know.”
They began to run. They soon reached a little wooden bridge whose piles stood in the rushes. They clung to it for an instant to avoid being carried off by the squall.
The pond had real waves swept together from the surrounding swamps by the strong currents, and it bubbled and boiled like a tub. Then, on the black waters of this boiling tub, there appeared, suddenly, the reflection of the flames which roared from the roof, like a trail of blood — and in this reflection there was a corpse.
It came from out the depths of the night, carried along by the waters, and flung itself before Christine and the little boy who was guiding her, as though they could still do something for it.
Dumb with horror, the two watched it glide under the bridge, arms outstretched, face already decomposed, and mouth gaping open with the most horrible grimace, as though trying to send out a last appeal.
“Father Violette!” cried young Phillippe, when he could at last get his breath.
Then he began to run. But this time in the opposite direction, leaving Christine alone. He took the road back to Corbillieres with all the speed of his two little legs, which was increased tenfold by terror. And Christine, left alone, did not hesitate to flee, as to a refuge, toward the house where she must at least warn Benedict that his chimney was on fire, blazing worse and worse.
Fortunately, the wind, blowing from the southwest, hurled the many colored sparks away from the roof into the little willow patch, whose trees huddled together, seemed to rear up from time to time in the tragic night, lifting their twisted arms imploringly.
It is easy to imagine Christine’s state of mind when she at last reached the door of the house. The sinister aspect of the country through which she had just come; the sight of the body rushing to her feet like a diabolical offering from this baleful scene; these flames escaping from the roof; the boy who ran in terror; all contributed to precipitate her, panting and gasping on the doorstep. Her only hope was now in Benedict. Her fists had scarcely enough strength to strike, but a piercing cry escaped from her lips:
“Benedict! Benedict!”
To this appeal, another cry on the other side of the door, replied in a terrible fashion.
A cry? Say rather a howl, which, at the same time, was a monstrous blasphemy and a terrifying clamor, which continuing in delirious imprecations struck Christine to the heart.
And the door did not open.
Against this door Christine writhed in an agony of horror, for the cry was far more awful than all that she had seen or heard since she had put foot in this cursed territory.
From her lips again came the cry: “Benedict! Benedict!” But now it sounded as though she were imploring mercy from an executioner.
Finally the door opened. And she caught a glimpse of a dreadful vision of a monster carrying a young girl into the depths of his infernal regions.
Then the door was closed again, while above all, the flames roared with renewed fury, whirling, devouring, scattering its funereal cinders on the drooping trees in the willow patch and enveloping them with the odor of death.
Meanwhile, little Phillippe had reached the village and given the alarm. Phillippe was the son of the harness maker, but, on his arrival, he did not run to his father’s shop. Instinctively, he dashed into the inn, where, at this hour of the apéritif, he would meet all that composed the defensive strength of the neighborhood: the constable, the town drummer, or mace-bearer, and two or three fellows, who, plying the trade of poachers in the swamps, were united souls who understood one another like thieves at a market, and, always keeping their powder dry, had long ago accepted the dominating protection of Father Violette.
When the youngster had related, between gasps of terror, that Father Violette’s body was floating between the two waters under the bridge, every man jumped to his feet.
“It’s the Redskin!”
Besides, in their minds, this was not his first crime. For a long time he had been thought a murderer. From the Green Tree Inn to Corbillieres, every one knew of the animosity that existed between the two men — without taking count, that of late, Father Violette was the only one who had concerned himself about what had become of little Annie. Five minutes later, twenty men from the village, all armed with guns, sticks, and pitchforks, started out on a campaign against Redskin.
The town drummer had gone to fetch his drum, and they had the greatest trouble in the world in preventing him from beating it.
Young Phillippe trotted by his side.
Word was passed from one to the other to keep silence and, on account of the narrowness of the path, they marched in single file to the piles of the little bridge, where they found the body of Father Violette waiting for them, the black hole of his mouth apparently crying out to them for vengeance.
A dull exclamation ran the length of the file. Two of the men went down into the water, which was lighted by the sinister beacon which burned stronger than ever over the brigand’s abode. They drew the body onto the bank.
“For sure,” exclaimed one of them, “for the past twenty-four hours he has been drinking more than he needs.”
They held a short consultation.
The fierce fire, which came bursting out of the cursed house, frightened them.
“Does he want to set fire to himself?” they asked. “But maybe he set fire to his shanty before running away.”
Finally, they decided to surround the house and rush upon it at a given signal.
“I’ll give the signal,” said the drummer.
And, at the roll of a drum, they uttered wild shouts and began the attack.
The door was broken in without resistance.
The first one stopped on the threshold, as though turned to stone.
Without paying any a
ttention to them, Benedict Masson was splashing water on the marblelike face of Christine, who had fainted, while close by, in a basket, a shapeless heap of débris was ready for the stove, from which there came the frightful odor of burning grease — the rest of the remains of Annie, part of which were being consumed in a flame stirred up by petrol. Benedict Masson was calmly resuscitating one lady, while he burned the other.
CHAPTER XXXIV
“I AM INNOCENT”
BENEDICT WAS ALMOST beaten to death. It was not until he had ceased to move before the men of Corbillieres stopped striking him with their sticks and pick-axes. Then the harnessmaker, little Phillippe’s father, proposed to cut him up in pieces — as he had done to little Annie — and to throw him in the stove. Perhaps that is what would have happened, so intense was the rage of the peasants — all considered, quite excusable — if the gendarmes had not arrived.
“Don’t!” cried one brigadier. “Save him for the guillotine.”
Then they left Benedict Masson, to occupy themselves with Christine, who as yet had not opened her eyes.
“Here’s one who had a narrow escape,” said the town drummer.
All of them were of this opinion.
It was not until she was carried outside in the cool, fresh air that Christine gave any signs of life. A cart had been brought and the two were hoisted into it. At Corbillieres, Christine was put into a room at the inn. She had a high fever and was delirious.
As to Benedict Masson, they threw him on a bed of straw in the stables, and the gendarmes watched him, not so much afraid that he might escape as that he might recover. At about two o’clock in the morning he heaved a deep sigh, sat up, and passed his hand over his forehead, which was still damp from the effects of the blows. By the light of the lantern hanging on the wall he could be seen looking around as if seeking for some one.
Then, when he finally caught sight of the gendarmes seated on their knapsacks by the threshold, he said quite distinctly, and without apparent emotion:
“I am innocent.”
The representatives of the law did not contradict him. Then he asked for water. “I feel as though I could drink a tank,” he said.
The gendarmes carried the water to him in a pail which was used to serve the horses. He drank until his intense thirst was quenched, then he stripped himself to the waist and washed his wounds.
“These fellows in Corbillieres have got heavy hands,” he said.
Then he began to laugh.
The gendarmes felt a chill run down their spines. They have since said that they had never heard such a laugh, and it was all they could do not to destroy that monster there and then with their revolvers. It was quite another thing when he began to scoff.
“I hope they have taken care of my beautiful visitor,” he said. “She’s a young girl of good family who is not accustomed to the swamps.
“She will catch cold! But the other one was too warm.”
The gendarmes threw themselves upon him and clapped the handcuffs on him. They would have gagged him. He permitted them to do it without offering any resistance, although he seemed to have recovered all his strength. He simply nodded his head, as though he approved of what they were doing.
“Take your precautions,” he remarked. “One never can tell. I see that you are not in sympathy with me.”
They put the body of Father Violette, which the cart had brought on its second trip in the barn. The brigadier had asked that it should be left on the path where they had dragged it, so that the police might find it; but the friends of the victim, the villagers from Corbillieres, had refused to let him spend another night in the rain, so they brought him in a dragnet.
Every now and then they would leave the main barroom, go out, and look at the corpse and swear to avenge him.
The subprefecture had been informed, and the police authorities were being awaited in a tremor of excitement. What an affair it was — there were no two opinions as to that. Such an affair as would be talked about for a long time in the four corners of the world. Why bother with a confounded trial? After all, no one could tell how many had been assassinated by Redskin. They only knew of seven victims — seven poor young women that he had cut into pieces and burned in the fire of his stove — but there were undoubtedly more.
By morning they were so excited that they wanted to set fire to the stable and burn the satyr. Fortunately the police arrived. It was about time.
Menaced by all this clamor, by all these cries for his life, Benedict maintained a formidable calm which impressed his jailers, who wondered if they would be strong enough to save him a second time from being lynched.
“Open the door for them,” he said to the gendarmes. “If they want to cut me up also, don’t stop them.”
He had given Christine’s address, so that her father might be informed.
“The poor young lady,” he moaned. “She had a bad shock. She certainly did not expect to see what she did. But, then, why did she come? I have requested her many times never to put her foot in this part of the country.”
Everything he said seemed to be an admission of his crime. At least his words all led to this conclusion: that there could be no possible doubt as to his guilt. Nevertheless, he often uttered these words, repeating them as though they formed his main theme:
“Anyhow, all that doesn’t prevent me from being innocent!”
Was he mocking the others? Was he mocking himself? The way in which he said that was not far from being a joke. Was he trying to pass for a madman?
At the first questions — or, rather, at his first replies — the judge of instructions declared:
“We have here one of the cynical type.”
Cynical — that’s what he was. He seemed to take a keen pleasure in the horror which he inspired, and to do all he could to increase it tenfold. The constable and drummer had been left to watch the fire without touching it, until it had gone out. The magistrates found everything in condition. Among some of the things found were the trunks and suit cases — in fact, all the baggage of the seven women who had disappeared.
“Well, what does that prove?” he demanded when this fact was mentioned. “It shows that I am a methodical man, and that one can have confidence in me. When they return they will be very pleased to find their belongings as they left them.”
“We shall probably know where to find their ashes!” cried the judge. “When we do, we shall put an end to this attitude, which makes you one of the worst monsters who ever dishonored the name of man.”
“I understand your indignation, my lord, and the heat with which it inspires you. But believe me, it is not certain that you will find all these young ladies in cinders. Because I have burned one is no reason that I should burn the others also.”
“Well, confess to this one.”
“Confess what? I confess nothing at all. I have always been too fond of the truth to please you by admitting a crime which I have not committed. Because a man cuts a woman in pieces and puts her in his stove, that is no proof that he has killed her.”
“Well, then, prove to us that you did not kill her.”
“That, my lord, is not my business. I am not a magistrate. I am not paid by the government to make investigations, or to establish the innocence or the guilt of citizens. Not for anything would I encroach on your prerogatives. You must do the work.”
Thus spoke Benedict Masson. We will not go further into the police investigation, which has indeed occupied the attention of the entire world, and which is still at the present time fresh in all memories. The more the testimonies and the facts seem to prove his guilt, the more did Benedict Masson seem to experience a ferocious joy. Never had his face appeared more powerful — nor, naturally, more odious.
In the testimony which concerned Father Violette he recognized all the threatening words he had used, and he paid a tribute to Mother Mouche’s memory when she told, with all the details, of the visit of Redskin to the Green Tree Inn, and of his conversation with the l
ate gamekeeper.
Mother Mouche had foreseen too well that this very event would follow not to draw a just pride from it.
“If Father Violette had listened to me,” she said, “he would still be baiting his lines and laying his traps.”
The autopsy on the body of Father Violette established the fact that he had been caught with a lasso, strangled, and thrown into the pond with stones tied to his feet. But the stones must have been too heavy, for the cord which fastened them to the victim had been broken.
“Evidently,” said Benedict Masson, when the results of the inquiry were made known to him— “evidently a Redskin ought to know how to throw a lasso. But I have already told you that I do not know how to throw a lasso, even though I may not be able to convince you, my lord. But, all the same, I am now waiting for you to place this lasso on the table beside the rest of the convicting objects, by the side of my little basket which held the remains, and of my stove.”
The police went to Christine’s home to question her, having been requested by the doctors to spare her, at least for the moment, the painful scene of confronting the assassin.
Besides, her presence would have been useless, for the accused contradicted none of the testimony that Mlle. Norbert gave.
She claimed that her great mistake was to have taken pity on a being so particularly disgraced by nature; but stated that, on account of this same misfortune, he had appealed to her interest, for she had believed that the misanthrope of the bookbinder, his unsociable nature, his eccentricities, the somber poetry of his writings, and his language — which was sometimes enthusiastic to the point of disordered lyricism, and sometimes as rough as a street porter, had all been caused by the ugliness which isolated him from humanity. She herself had bent down to soothe his sorrow; but she had run up against an executioner.
When the door of the house of Corbillieres had opened, she had found herself face to face with a sort of madman covered with blood, like a butcher in a slaughter house who was throwing in the flames the last remains of a human body. And then she remembered nothing more. She only wondered how it was that she had not died on beholding such a frightful sight.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 399
