Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  Jacques ran in and found her dragging herself along the floor in such a disorder that she would have been half nude, if it were not for her wonderful hair which fell around her in a protecting wave. He thought that she had been having a frightful nightmare and had rolled off the bed in the grip of the dream. He had no doubts on the matter when he heard her say, between hiccoughs of terror, while her rigid arm pointed to the window and the far-off moonlit landscape:

  “She’s there! She’s there! I have seen her. She is walking in the cemetery. Oh, Heavens, what is she going to do?”

  He wrapped Christine hastily in her cloak and laid her on the bed, and tried to soothe her with tender words.

  “Now, now, Christine, wake up! Wake up, my darling! Come out of this bad dream.”

  But she replied harshly: “I am not asleep. I’m not dreaming. I tell you that I have seen her, as I see you now! She was gliding along by the chapel wall. She has gone to Druine’s house now — it’s true.” And some minutes passed while they both tried to convince the other.

  “This was to be expected — it had to end up like this,” growled Jacques, “from the moment that we remained here, impressionable as you are now. This attack is as logical as the development of a tumor.”

  He had hardly finished speaking when the sound of repeated heavy blows were heard on the ground floor. He wanted to run to the window to open it and find out what was the matter, but Christine had thrown her arms about his neck and held him back with invincible strength.

  “No, no! Don’t go there! Don’t go there! It is she. I am sure it is she!”

  Then they were silent until the knocks had ceased, but now they seemed to hear a noise in the house. A door or a window had been opened — other doors were banged, and footsteps were heard running, sort of bounding up the stairs. Jacques stood up straight. She crushed him against her.

  “Don’t go there! Don’t go there!”

  “Let me, at least, go and lock the door!”

  She let him go for a moment, with the smile of a dying woman. He ran to the door and opened it. He stood face to face with a ghost, whose great form swayed under the protection of a lamp. It was Druine!

  He came into the room, threw his back against the door, closed it with all his weight and regained his equilibrium, so that he was at last able to breathe or pant at his ease.

  Then he caught sight of Christine, who looked as wild as he.

  “You have seen her, too? You’ve seen her, eh?” he asked.

  Christine nodded her head. She had seen her. Yes. Yes. And he? Had he also seen her?

  Then he panted out his tale in scraps, in bits, his breath as hot as though his terrified soul was being blasted from the depths of an interior furnace.

  CHAPTER XLII

  THE FIGURE AT THE INN

  “I WAS ASLEEP — I had just dropped off to sleep. Indistinctly, I heard her voice calling to me — I was not afraid at first — it was such a soft voice — so soft that I thought I was dreaming. But, then — a little stone was thrown against my window — and I knew — I was not dreaming — and I began — to tremble. I went to the window — and I saw nothing — and the cemetery appeared to be very peaceful. I opened the window then — I heard the voice — grown stronger now — say:

  “‘Druine! Druine!’ Then I saw her standing up against the rampart walls. ‘You do not recognize me,’ she said. ‘It is your mistress — the Marchioness of Coulteray — the wife of the Vampire. What have you made of me, Druine?’

  “I fell on my knees — making a great sign of the cross. Yes — it was she — it was indeed she — it was indeed her voice, her voice — so soft — so sad — everything. She went on talking: ‘What have you made of me, Druine? What have you made of me? Why did you not give me up to Sangor? — my throat awaited him! And now — my throat is parched.’

  “Yes, she said that — I’m sure she said it,” cried the sexton; “she spoke very distinctly — her little voice was like a silver bell ringing in the night. Her voice was not wicked — but what she said was so terrible: ‘You have made me the wife of Louis-Jean-Marie-Chrysostome for eternity.’

  “And then she disappeared through the gap. She glided down the prairie. She turned for a moment to wave me farewell — then she entered the wood. May Orfon take my soul — if I’m lying!”

  Druine went down on his knees and, making the sign of the cross, struck himself heavy blows on the chest, as if saying his confession — just as if what had happened had been his fault.

  “It is frightful,” he exclaimed with a sob. “It was I who gave her over to the demon. May Jesus have pity on us!”

  Christine wept like the Magdalen. Jacques had gone to the window, gazing over the peaceful country, which seemed unchangeable in its material solidity under the clear heavens and the cold glances of the stars of the night. Now the countryside was without ghosts.

  “You are all going mad down here with your stories of vampires,” he said, turning around to them. “Now, Druine, I tell you what we are going to do — and you are going with me. We are going down into the crypt.”

  “No, no, I just came from there!”

  “What do you mean — you have just come from there?”

  “Yes, when she had gone — I felt better. The cool, fresh air on my head — I no longer saw her. So I said to myself — that perhaps I had been dreaming — that the crypt was closed — that its walls were very thick — even for a vampire. Well, then it was greater than my fear — I wanted to know.

  “I pulled on my trousers — I took the keys of the chapel — down I went. Then I noticed at once that if the big iron gratings of the crypt were closed — I had forgotten to lock the little door which opens at the foot of the tower — it was by that one I took you down, you know. Well, it was through there that she came out. There’s no mistake about it. The stone was not in its place. The tomb is open — the coffin also — there is nothing inside it.”

  “Stay here with Christine and wait for me,” said Jacques.

  And he was already outside, in spite of Christine’s cries.

  From the window they saw him cross the court of honor on a run, then, slacking his pace a little, he went the full length of the bailiwick, evidently trying to master himself so that he would be quite cool when he arrived at the crypt. He would not permit the thought of a wandering ghost to get the better of him.

  Suddenly, Christine and Druine uttered a hollow moan at the same time. The young girl had seized the sexton’s arm and was squeezing it hard enough to make him cry out. Jacques had entered the cemetery and, at the same moment, returning to the cemetery, the white ghost of Annie Elizabeth appeared, gliding along the walls of the chapel.

  She passed before the little porch, reached the little tower, then disappeared by the low door which led to the crypt.

  Jacques, who had taken the same route after stopping for a moment, entered the crypt behind her.

  Huddled against each other, their faces at the window, neither Christine nor the sexton could utter a word. All the life within them, all that remained to them of vital force, was concentrated in their gaze, which did not leave the cemetery, the chapel, and the little black hole of the door by which Annie Elizabeth and Jacques had gone down into the home of the dead.

  Long, long minutes went by — at last they saw Jacques reappear. A great sigh escaped from Christine.

  She was covered from head to foot with an icy sweat and her teeth were chattering.

  Druine seemed as though he had been turned to stone.

  Jacques came out of the cemetery, crossed the bailiwick with a firm step and, looking up toward the window, waved to them as he crossed the court of honor.

  When he came into the room, they looked at him as though he had come from another world.

  “Well, you are nothing but children,” he said; “you have been dreaming. You have both had the same thoughts and both seen the same vision. I have returned from the crypt and, no matter what you say, Druine, nothing has moved.
The slab of stone is still in its place. The tomb has not been touched.”

  “You lie!” cried Christine. “You saw her as well as we. You even stopped when you caught sight of her. You followed her into the vault.”

  “That’s true,” cried Druine in his rough voice, “that’s true. I swear it on my hopes of Paradise.”

  And again he made the sign of the cross.

  “Then you take me for an impostor, Druine? What kind of a man are you? Well, then, come with me — come with me into the crypt and you will see that you are mistaken.”

  “No,” declared Druine with his most somber air, “to-morrow — there is daylight.”

  He installed himself in the passage, rolled up in a coverlet. Christine would not permit Jacques to leave her and, finally, at daybreak, she dropped off to sleep in an armchair. Jacques himself had just closed his eyes when the sound of voices outside woke them from their first sleep. A crowd of villagers had gathered at the chapel; others were running about the bailiwick, calling for Druine and, on seeing him, the peasants began coming across the field toward the château with excited gestures.

  To understand the excitement of the people of Coulteray, we must know the events which had taken place during the night in the village, at the same time that Christine and Jacques were undergoing such agonizing moments in the château.

  The little festival had been prolonged at the Fairy Grotto Inn. There is always, in this sort of festival, whether it be for a death or a marriage, a few obstinate ones who cannot make up their minds to leave the table. All the more because, it seems, they were sure to lose at the cards. At midnight there were still four left at the table, disputing over their sous and emptying their glasses of wine. There was Birouste, the blacksmith; Verdeil, who kept a garage and sold gasoline at the corner of the bridge at the crossroads of the three routes, the strong-minded man of Coulteray; Nicol, the grocer; and Tamisier, the biggest wine merchant of the town and suburbs.

  With these were Achard, the landlord of the inn, a man who had made three generations dance to his piping, who had never wanted to hold any office in the municipality, being the friend of every one.

  At about a quarter of an hour after midnight, these five men heard Mother Gerard, who had remained at the inn to help and who, having finished her work, was crossing the courtyard to reach her own house — a little one-story house at the entrance of the town, near the bridge, almost opposite Verdeil’s garage — give a loud cry.

  The shriek was so dreadful that the five men shuddered and jumped up with one accord to find out what had happened.

  They found Widow Gerard in the courtyard, looking as though she had turned to stone. Her mouth was still wide open from uttering her cry, and she was looking, like an insane person, straight before her into the open country. Instinctively, they all looked in the same direction of her excited gaze, and they saw a white form, covered with a long veil, coming down the prairie.

  CHAPTER XLIII

  A NIGHT OF AGONY

  THE NIGHT WAS so light and clear, the full moon shone so brightly that they could distinguish the wreath of flowers which crowned the head of the phantom and twined in the hair which fell onto her shoulders.

  They did not hesitate. At the first glance they knew that it was she, the new vampire, who had just escaped from her tomb and was coming toward Coulteray.

  All six of them could not have poor eyesight. They dragged Mother Gerard back with them and dashed into the inn, shut the doors and, after warning the servants, barricaded themselves in. They all got together in the same room. Mother Gerard began to say the “Ave Maria,” while the servants gave her the responses. The men said nothing, but they were pale. They were ashamed of their fear.

  “Just the same,” declared Achard, the innkeeper, “we’re all idiots. It is not possible.”

  But the others insisted that it was. They had seen her. She had come out from the wall of the château.

  “Surely,” agreed the blacksmith; “someone must have cast a spell over us. I be damned. I would not have believed it. Such a thing to happen in these days.”

  “What has she come to do here — this queer spirit?” Achard could not stand still in one place. Very nervous, he made the women stop their continuous repetition of the “Ave Maria.”

  “No,” he insisted, “to-morrow we’ll be the laughing stock of every one.” And he walked out of the room.

  They called to him to remain quiet, but it was more than he could do. Opening a window, he called to the others, who got up reluctantly.

  The women refused to budge — but they could hear.

  “There she is — that’s her! She’s going up! She’s going back to the château! See! There she is against the wall! She’s returning to the cemetery. Let her go, maybe she won’t come out again. The Vampire only works at night. They are afraid of the daylight. But, then, what about the marquis?”

  The women continued to repeat “Ave Maria, Ave Maria!” with a sort of pious frenzy. But the men made them keep quiet again, as soon as they came back into the room. They were all by now familiarized with the idea of the Vampire, for they had seen her go back to her abode. They were more at ease. They had all day before them to decide what must be done.

  What worried them more than anything else was the thought that people might think that they had made the whole story up, and that they might be laughed at.

  A passing anxiety, for, at the break of day, when they dared to appear in the streets, all Coulteray was already up.

  The people at the inn had not been the only ones who had seen the Vampire. There were some who had even heard her. For example: the two neighbors of Mother Gerard who lived by the bridge, they had heard her call — they had been awakened by her calling: “Adolphine, Adolphine” — Adolphine was Mother Gerard’s first name. They had got up and had recognized the marchioness, as they had seen her in the morning in her coffin.

  She had remained standing for some moments in the middle of the road, looking up at Adolphine’s room, who could not answer the Vampire because she was at the inn. This information, they swore, was absolutely true. As for the Vampire, she had gone off, after heaving a great sigh.

  The two neighbors had passed the remainder of the night in prayer. It can be easily understood that it did not take much to turn the whole countryside upside down.

  After they had learned what had happened to Druine, the most skeptical bowed to the common belief, except three: the mayor, the doctor, and the priest.

  The doctor, M. Moricet, explained scientifically the extraordinary event. It was not the first time that one had been confronted with a collective hallucination. It could be easily explained by the legend of the Vampire, which was firmly established in this part of the country. And the young men at the inn had been half drunk. When Jacques Cotentin was consulted, he, naturally, was of the same opinion as these gentlemen. He — why, he had seen nothing but a tomb which had not been touched.

  Yet, they were dealing with a population which was much excited by the superstition, and which must be calmed.

  So this is what they said: “If the tomb had not been temporary; if the stone had been sealed up, cemented, as it should be; if the lead coffin had been riveted — it was a coffin with rivets, so that it could be easily opened at the ceremony — the Vampire would not have been able to escape, and come and walk about at night in Coulteray.

  “Well, we will give satisfaction to you people. We will go to the tomb, open it and show the mortal remains of Annie Elizabeth and, then, in the presence of you all, we will close the coffin and the tomb, and cement the slab which covers it.

  “And, finally, the priest shall perform, with great ceremony, the rites of exorcism.”

  After this had been arranged, every one was calmed for the moment.

  So Christine saw her friend once more. And, in truth, after looking at the corpse, the events of the preceding night, the promenade which had caused so much talk, all seemed quite confused, and she became quite upset.
She no longer knew what she had seen, nor if she really had seen anything.

  As for Druine, he was more somber than ever, and no one dared, individually or collectively, to speak to him of hallucinations. He had seen the empty tomb. He had seen the dead under his window. Jacques had to silence him.

  Christine, who was in a very weak condition, wanted to leave on the evening of the same day — this day, which would forever be unforgotten in the annals of Coulteray, on which the legend of the Vampire took on such renewed strength that it went far beyond the borders into the other provinces causing visitors to flock to the country in such numbers that the fortunes of Achard, the innkeeper, and also that of the successor of Druine, were made, as he did not fail to tell the story of the Vampire as though it had happened to himself.

  To return to Christine, she was overcome that same evening, upon returning to the château, with a strange torpor, which, perhaps, came simply from her weakened condition. She had to go to bed, and she did not come out of the condition until the following morning, just in time to see the famous limousine with the iron shutters enter the courtyard.

  There was nothing mysterious about the machine that morning. It was open. But it was being driven by Jacques, which greatly astonished Christine.

  “Where have you been,” she asked, “with that machine?”

  “I took pity on poor Druine, who wanted to get away at once. And, as Madame Gerard, whom he is going to marry, also wanted to get away, I listened to their prayers and drove them to Sologne during the night. Druine has a little property down there where he has decided to end his days. I took this one because it was the only car left at the château. The poor things would have gone mad if they had remained here another hour.”