Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “My faith,” said Christine, “I can quite understand that now. Let us also go away at once.”

  During the journey she remained for hours without speaking. Jacques could not tell whether she was thinking or sleeping. Once she opened her eyes and said to him:

  “Just the same, it is quite extraordinary that you left me like that, without telling me — left me in that house. For, at least, while you were driving Druine and Madame Gerard to Sologne, I was quite alone there.”

  “No, you were not,” replied Jacques; “you were not alone. I asked Dr. Moricet to spend the night at the château.”

  That same evening when they reached Tours, they found a telegram from old Norbert:

  Come back at once. Gabriel is causing me anxiety.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  BEFORE THE SCAFFOLD

  BENEDICT MASSON’S TRIAL took place at the beginning of November. It was just as had been foreseen at the inquest. If possible, the cynicism of the accused had increased. His replies were a mixture of Jean Hiroux and Emile Henry — an intended stupidity, with audacious threats in language, which at times was like that of a carter; to be followed by the sovereign redoubtable hardness of a biblical prophet; or with flowery phrases like a page from Bernadin de St. Pierre, which ended most often in abominable slang.

  He used the jury as a target for his worst jokes. He repeated to the presiding judge what he had said to the investigating magistrate, that he was not paid to do the work of a judge, and that it was for law and order to discover what had become of the young ladies who had gone to Corbillieres; that, in what concerned them, their fate did not interest him in the least; and that, if they had found him in the act of burning a little girl cut in pieces — an accident to be regretted, above all, for her — it did not in any way prove his own guilt.

  We will not dwell on the attitude which rose, as they say, in the hearts of all honest men. The address of the State’s attorney to the court was, as one might well expect, relentless. And Benedict Masson could count for very little lenience from the representative of the people, having treated the magistrate, whose face was pitted with smallpox marks, with vitriolic scorn.

  The most sensational moment of the trial was when Christine Norbert entered the witness stand. The manner of the accused changed completely. He lost his superb air of hauteur, and, dropping down on the bench, hid his face in his arms.

  The testimony of Christine was short and terrible.

  Mlle. Norbert did not even look once in the direction of Benedict Masson, but, turning her face to the jury, seemed to be dictating their duty to them. They did not fail. Benedict Masson was condemned to death.

  He refused to sign his appeal. On the 2nd of December, the sinister machine — sensationally thus termed by the Gazette des Trimunaux — was erected before the gates of the cemetery of Melun. The cold was intense. Everybody shivered. The condemned was the only person who did not tremble when he came out of the carriage which had brought him directly from the prison.

  His head, which they were about to chop off, was held high. He looked at the crowd without emotion. They expected a last insult to society on the manner in which the trial had been conducted. But he had spewed out his bitter foam. He said nothing. He kissed the crucifix which the priest held out to him.

  Then he gave himself up to the executioner’s aids. The knife fell. M. de Paris has often said that he had never presided at such an execution. Ordinarily, the condemned, as soon as he is on the plank and they have placed his head in the groove, seemed to contract, drawing himself into the shoulders. But Benedict Masson threw himself onto the plank, as though it were a bed of rest which he had long looked forward to, and stretched his head forward, as if he were already seeking the basket into which it would roll.

  The cemetery was only a few steps away. The grave had already been dug. There was a sham funeral, but the head was handed over at once to an employee from the Faculty of Medicine of Paris, who disappeared immediately with his sanguinary trophy — according to the sensational dailies of Paris.

  And on the same day the attorney for this miserable creature sent to Mlle. Norbert the only paper left by his client.

  Upon opening this she read the verses from the “Promenade Sentimentale,” and under the verses this line: “Why did you come?” et cetera, et cetera.

  And now that Benedict Masson has been guillotined, we may ask why the writer of this story has qualified this frightful adventure as sublime. It is horrible, it is abominable, but sublime? Yes, the adventure of Benedict Masson is sublime! It is sublime because it has only just commenced.

  THE END

  The Son of Three Fathers (1924)

  Translated by Hannaford Bennett, 1925

  Original French Title: ‘Hardis-Gras ou le fils des trois pères’

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CHAPTER XXIX

  The translation’s first edition title page

  CHAPTER I

  IN WHICH HARDIGRAS BEGINS TO BE TALKED ABOUT

  ON THAT MORNING a wave of excitement passed through the great Bella Nissa Stores at the corner of the Place du Palais, before even the doors were opened to the public. From top to bottom of the huge establishment the staff spread the news: During the night Hardigras had been up to his old pranks again.

  The chief saleswoman in the linen department complained that two pairs of hemstitched and embroidered sheets were missing. In their place she found Hardigras’s visiting card. That devil of a Hardigras! He preferred to sleep in cambric sheets!

  The saleswomen in the silk department, who had not received a visit from him since, to the delight of some and the terror of others, he began his visits to the stores, turned away to smile. From the fact that so far the mysterious gentleman had spared their assortment of silk stockings, they concluded that he had little or no love of coquetry in his lady friends. Assuredly, if he was not overfond of love-making he had some taste for the things of the table; for, the new provision department, opened at the beginning of the season, no longer counted the number of tins of preserved food which had disappeared as if by magic.

  The young ladies in the lace department plaintively complained that they were unable to find their samples. Moreover that same day the absence of two pairs of pajamas and a bundle of bath towels was noticed, and in the perfumery department several bottles of eau-de-Cologne and a sprayer were missing. Hardigras was becoming a man of fashion!

  To prevent suspicion falling upon the wrong person, he invariably left his own elegant card — of course his cards came from the stationery department — on which he had written with his fountain pen in large capitals: Hardigras — a name of an alluring sound in this great city of the Midi, famous for its carnival.

  And it was impossible to lay hands on him!

  The first intimation of his presence showed that he did not disdain to take up his abode in the stores. It was discovered that he had assumed possession of a complete bedroom in the furniture department. Obviously he could not resist the temptation to sleep in the superb Louis XVI bed which lay “ready made” with its dainty sheets and lace embroidered pillow cases. The directors had been considerate enough to place on the bedside table an exquisite lighted night lamp whose electric bulb was
softened by a pink shade adorned with multi-colored beads.

  How could he do other than accept the unspoken invitation? The room seemed to be awaiting its occupant. It may be assumed that Hardigras, as he mingled in the daytime among the throng of customers, determined not to allow it to wait any longer. And with the coming of night, after the staff had wrapped the furniture in its gray lustring covers, the Bella Nissa’s uninvited guest took possession of his room....

  With no fear of the night watchmen on their rounds, Hardigras, as he lay between the sheets under the gray lustring, must needs have dreamed pleasant dreams!... Then, rising early, with a good appetite, he had found his way to the provision department; and from the articles of food and condiments which had disappeared, it was easy to establish the nature of his early morning breakfast....

  Availing himself of the same opportunity, he provided himself with kitchen utensils — casseroles, spirit-stove, nothing was lacking. On another occasion he replenished his wardrobe. Disregarding evening dress, he helped himself to several suits which would have rejoiced those workmen who are ready to join the Sunday fêtes and dance with the girls, or feast at Cimiez on French pastry.

  By choosing clothes of different sizes he may have wished it to be believed that he had accomplices, but more probably he sought in this way to disguise his own size — a proof that he was not devoid of a sense of humor. As for footwear he seemed to fancy a particular number from which it was deduced that this was his size and shape. He did not wear gloves. Notwithstanding these precise clues which seemed to suggest that this was no case of a swell mobsman, it was impossible to discover who he was. Needless to say this devil of a Hardigras had become famous along the seaboard these last six weeks. From St. Raphael to Mentone he was the main subject of gossip. The daily newspapers of the Côte d’Azur had related his earliest exploits with such a wealth of detail that in the end the interest of the great public was fully aroused.

  It was at first thought that the whole thing was a new form of advertisement brought forward at a time when the old establishment had to fight against the competition of the Galeries Parisienne, but the rage displayed by M. Hyacinthe Supia, the managing director — against newspaper reporters whom he sent to the devil whenever they managed to get near him — and his threats against the elusive miscreant himself, soon proved to the public, at first incredulous, that the incidents must be taken seriously.

  Then they were more amused than ever.

  It is well to say also that M. Hyacinthe Supia was liked by no one. To begin with he never laughed, which is a mortal offense in a place that is a paradise on earth. And then he was niggardly, cheeseparing, discharging old assistants under the most frivolous pretexts, and engaging younger persons at starvation wages. The staff called him the “tyrant”.

  On the particular day when new thefts were discovered, the result of Hardigras’s night-time exploits, the assistants were naturally laughing among themselves; but our story, which opens in farce, was to develop in so dramatic a fashion that they soon ceased their jesting.

  The tall, gaunt figure of M. Hyacinthe Supia came in clad in a long frock coat as in a black flag, and as he strode through the stores terror reigned. His grayish-blue eyes gleamed with a malevolent light. Never had the “tyrant” seemed more formidable. After him marched, solemn and formal, M. Hippolyte Morelli, the staff controller, nicknamed “his majesty” because of the overwhelming dignity of his gait and his manner of countersigning with his initials “H. M.” the most disastrous decisions on the future prospects of his subordinates.

  The chief entered his office without uttering a word to a soul. Other important persons joined him and it was soon rumored that they were holding a directors’ meeting.

  Half an hour later the result of the deliberations became known. M. Hyacinthe Supia had decided to dismiss the day and night staff, whose duty it was to keep watch, and engage a fresh one. Then it was learned that the meeting had unanimously resolved to dismiss henceforth every employee in any department in which traces of Hardigras were found.

  It was no longer a subject of jest. The staff was flung into consternation. Since M. Supia had adopted this extreme measure he must have some suspicion that the thief had accomplices in the stores. In any case Hardigras’s doings were looked upon as less amusing now that they involved the dismissal of the staff.

  In spite of the seriousness of the circumstances there was an outburst of laughter when on the stroke of noon it was observed that some mysterious hand had fastened to the light iron railing of the chief cashier’s office a placard on which was written:

  Any employee dismissed from Bella Nissa on account of Hardigras will be provided with a new situation within a week, and will have no cause to regret the “tyrant’s” starvation wages. I pledge my word for it.

  Hardigras.

  How had this insolent placard been placed there? It was hung in such a way as to be out of reach. And thus it remained displayed before the eyes of the secretly delighted staff and the openly amused customers.

  “Look out,” exclaimed one suddenly. “Look at hatchet face.” This was another nickname used by the smaller shopkeepers in the Rue Droite in speaking of the proprietor of Bella Nissa who, of course, had determined to ruin them by opening a provision department.

  M. Supia in fact came along forcing his way through. A ladder had been brought up; but before the placard could be removed he had time to read it.

  He grew yellower than quince jam, seized hold of the offending card, turned to the public and, with the look of a man who would like to choke the life out of them, he glared at those who were laughing. At last he decided to take no notice, and beckoned “his majesty” to come with him.

  Both entered the elevator and mounted to the fifth floor, to his flat. He well-nigh collided with the frightened maid who opened the door; presently the two men shut themselves up in the private study. The conference lasting over an hour, did not pass off without a row. At last “his majesty” left and M. Supia remained alone. Lunch was long since overdone. Consternation prevailed from the kitchen to the dining-room. Then, someone ventured to knock at the door. And, as there was no answer, the door was shyly opened and the radiant figure of a young girl of seventeen brightened the gloomy interior.

  “Good morning, godfather, how are you this morning?” said the chit without enthusiasm.

  “Bad,” he answered ungraciously.

  “Aunt and cousin are waiting lunch for you.”

  “Let them lunch without me and leave me in peace.... Do you understand, Antoinette?”

  “Yes, godfather.”

  She closed the door but came back again almost at once.

  “Godfather,” she said with a simplicity that seemed too natural to be unaffected, “is that awful Hardigras upsetting you again?”

  “Damn it Antoinette!... Are you making game of me?”

  And he strode towards her with so threatening a look that she slammed the door in his face.

  He thought he had rid himself of her when the door opened. It was the chit again.

  “I’ll tell you, godfather, the notion that came into my head...

  “Notion about what?” he growled all but subdued by so much persistence.

  “About arresting Hardigras....”

  “Well, keep it to yourself,” shouted Supia. “And, still more, don’t let me see your face again or else....”

  “All right, godfather, I’m going...

  She ran off finally without waiting to hear more. Neither wife nor daughter dared approach him during the day. About five o’clock Hippolyte Morelli came back to report that he had taken the necessary steps to obtain new night watchmen who would be ready that evening. But, M. Supia declared that he needed no one that night, that he refused to allow a single person in the stores after closing time, and that he was discharging even the firemen.

  “His majesty,” who was not gifted with overmuch understanding, withdrew at a loss. But it was easy to see that the “tyrant” me
ant to ascertain for himself what was going on in his stores during the night. He had no intention of sending for the police, whose intervention is usually accompanied by a regrettable publicity. He would himself arrest Hardigras, question him, and know how to unravel the tangled threads which moved this insolent puppet, in the pay of his enemies.

  M. Hyacinthe Supia was no coward. At nine o’clock that night he descended to the deserted stores with a revolver in each pocket. It is easy to imagine the hooligan tricks that he prepared in order to capture his visitor. Obviously he knew as much about the ins and outs of Bella Nissa stores as the ghost-like Hardigras.

  From the basements in which the delivery department was situated, to the fourth floor reserved for household utensils and ironmongery, he groped his way, throwing now and again the rays of a small dark lantern on obscure recesses which appeared suspicious. More than once, too, he came to a stop fancying he heard a gasp, a breath.

  For a moment, as with infinite precaution he drew near the famous Louis XVI room in which Hardigras but recently had savored such sweet repose between the sheets, he seemed to detect a peculiar snore which could come only from a man devoid of all moral sense, and as invulnerable to remorse as to evil dreams. M. Supia suddenly flew to arms lifting in a flash the lustring covers. And yet the snores continued singly, rhythmic, but a little farther away.... He searched the entire furniture department.... And the snores went on, becoming calmer, more frequent, blissful! It was enough to drive a man mad. The lustring fluttered like huge black wings under the “tyrant’s” angry fists.

  The hapless man passed through a night of hallucinations. At three o’clock in the morning he was wandering about distracted, clambering up to the fourth floor from the ground floor and then, suddenly convinced that an unaccountable noise was proceeding from the basement, darting down again like an arrow!