Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

Orders were despatched from Nice and even from Paris, insisting on an immediate intervention; but the besieged announced that since Souques and Ordinal had been careless enough to enter the place they would hold them as hostages and not scruple to make short work of them if any attempt were made to break through.

  While this farce was being played outside, the tragedy was continuing in the upper town. And with great dispatch! Toton Robin had been nominated Presiding Judge. In a few words he put them in possession of the facts. The bodies of Bolacion and Tulip were even now hanging at the main gate, and it was Giaouse’s turn to be tried.

  Giaousé threw himself upon his knees. He begged for mercy. He appealed to Titin to help him. Titin rose to his feet, pale and trembling.

  “I ask pardon for him,” he said. “He allowed himself to be led away. I cannot forget that we loved each other like brothers. And if you have any regard for me, remember that he saved my life.”

  But a pitiless voice behind him was heard. It was the voice of a dying woman who had retained sufficient strength to be present at his punishment.

  “He is the most guilty of them all because the others were not your friends,” she gasped. “This man pretended to be a brother to you and deceived you more than a man has the right to deceive his worst enemy. The reason he saved your life, Titin, was that he wanted you to live so that people might continue to believe that you committed these murders. And he got you out of prison merely to enable Hardigras to continue his crimes. Do you still ask mercy for him, Titin?”

  At this deadly explanation a tremendous clamor arose. Giaousé was carried to the scaffold without further ado. As to Titin, after uttering a dull moan, he turned to Souques and Ordinal:

  “Now all is over. There is nothing more to be done. I am at your service.”

  But the people protested:

  “We alone are to blame. It is we who should give ourselves up. We have acted with strict justice like good and impartial judges. Do with us whatever you like.”

  And so ended the siege of La Fourca. Souques and Ordinal, unaided, made the entire town prisoners. There were barely sufficient troops and police to take charge of the people, increased by the crowd demanding to be tried with Titin.

  The end is a matter of history. The trial was transferred to a Court in the South West, the Court at Nice being set aside on the grounds of prejudice. The prisoners were all found guilty and bound over. Titin was triumphantly acquitted.

  The marriage of Titin and Toinetta was celebrated with rural pomp, Aiguardente, Tantifla, Tony Bouta, and the worthy Pistafun, discharged from prison some weeks before, continued to celebrate the festivity for a year on end without intermission. At the first banquet the bride insisted on M. Bezaudin being placed on her right. Odonovitch was on her left and addressed her as, “Your Majesty.”

  “Queen of La Fourca,” she corrected. “I want no better title.”

  Before the ball Titin and Toinetta went to St. Helene Church. For ten days in succession Mme. Bibi opened the dance with M. Papajeudi, who was the first to call a halt....

  The curious, who may wish to obtain some knowledge of the amount of food and drink of all kinds consumed in those ten days, may be referred to a learned work which the first magistrate of Torre les Tourettes has been engaged in compiling in his spare time. The worthy mayor of the Round Table, the noble and well-beloved Arthur, has taken it upon himself to collect together all the facts bearing upon the Chronicles of Hardigras. And like all chronicles truly worthy of the name, these which do not take their rise in the imagination of romancers, they will serve one day to complete the great and glorious history of France.

  THE END

  The Adventures of a Coquette (1924)

  Translated by Hannaford Bennett, 1925

  Original French Title: ‘La Farouche Aventure’

  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

  CHAPTER XXX

  CHAPTER XXXI

  CHAPTER XXXII

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  CHAPTER XXXV

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  Leroux, close to the time of publication

  CHAPTER I

  IRENE DE TROIE OF THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE

  “WHAT IS IT, Sylvia?”

  “The French correspondent of the Havas agency has called with his copy, madame. He wants you to read it at once. He hopes you’ll be pleased....”

  “Well, read it to me.”

  Sylvia read:

  “‘Rio de Janeiro: The South American tour of Mademoiselle Irene de Troie (of the Comédie Française) bids fair to be a triumphant success. During the last three days all that counts in the world of politics, art, finance, and industry in Rio de Janeiro has thronged the theatre in which our national Celimene...’”

  “Do you wish him to say ‘national’?” asked Sylvia, calmly lifting her white forehead encircled with hair drawn down in plain strands over her temples in a manner which would have roused the envy of an engraving of Louis Philippe’s time. She fastened her pale green eyes on the fluffy form of her mistress wrapped in a night gown and stretched on the sofa in an attitude of graceful lassitude. “Forgive me, madame, but it seems to me that if he said, for instance, ‘our beautiful Celimene’ it would vary slightly...”

  “What does it matter if I am beautiful if I am not national?” returned Irene with an impatience which bordered on anger. “My personality is of no account unless it be of service to my country, and the applause which greets me would leave me cold if it were not an indirect tribute to Art whose humble servant I am and, above all to French Art for which I am a commercial traveller. People don’t know me, or rather they have a wrong impression of me. For the three years during which you have been with me — you, the first maid whom I made my companion and secretary because you have taken your teacher’s certificate — you have come to believe, like many others, that everything I dictate to you comes from pride or foolish vanity. No need to shake your head. I know what I’m talking about, and I never shrink from the responsibility of my actions. The fear of seeming ridiculous too often paralyses our fellow countrymen abroad. And the spread of French culture suffers in consequence. My hardihood is of some service. I know what I lay myself open to, but I am no coward. I will make those persons who are impelled to dance to the discord of jazz bands listen to the voice of Art and Beauty which is the voice of France. — Do you follow me, Sylvia?”

  “Yes, madame, and no one is more eager than T am to assist in your fame.”

  “Well then go on reading. I’m listening.” Sylvia read:

  “‘... has thronged the theatre in which our national Celimene gathers applause and adds lustre to French genius. The President of the Republic honoured by his presence the performance this evening which was particularly brilliant...’”

  “‘Particularly brilliant,’” interposed Irene. “What does ‘particularly brilliant’ mean?”

  “I was going to ask you, madame. It means absolutely nothing at all.”

  “The young man could not possibly have used a more commonplace expression,” agreed Irene, fanning herself. “Every performance is ‘particularly brilliant.’ Pass m
e the paper, Sylvia.” Irene ran her eye down “the paper.”

  “This won’t do.... It won’t do at all. Take this down, Sylvia.” And Irene dictated:

  “As an artistic achievement, the performance this evening will long be remembered in the annals of Brazil if we may believe the President’s own words. The play was the Dame aux Camélias. The death of Marguerite Gautier never before caused so many tears to flow nor such rapt attention. It may be said that Dumas’ heroine was buried in flowers. Bouquets and wreaths of flowers crossed in mid-air before falling at her feet. Women with faces aflame and heaving bosoms threw their gloves for lack of bouquets at the famous actress, and the men broke into a tremendous burst of cheering.”

  “That’s, a fine picture,” Sylvia ventured to interpose, “but it understates the truth....”

  “The President, accompanied by his ministers, visited Mademoiselle Irene de Troie in her dressing-room to compliment her. The permanent secretary of the Fine Arts, who alone is entitled to be called ‘grand master,’ so considerable is the importance attached to his office, which comprehends the entire range of intellectual pursuits, uttered these simple words: ‘Madame, I thank you. You have shown us this evening love and suffering in their ideal aspect.’ To the representatives of the press who came in a body to congratulate her, Irene de Troie said: ‘In the face of so enthusiastic a welcome I feel that it is the duty of France to encourage and strengthen the ties which already unite her to a people eager for art and beauty.’”

  “Is that the end?” asked Sylvia.

  “Yes, that will do for to-day. Give it to our correspondent and tell him not to alter a word. And now you may leave me.”

  “Don’t you want me any more? You are not angry with me, madame?”

  “No, Sylvia. You know that I like you and am kind.”

  It was true. Irene was kind and beautiful. She was a woman of thirty. She was of queenly trace. She had considerable ability. In the firmament in which the luminaries of the theatre glittered she shone like the evening star. It was pardonable in her to believe that she was the light of the world.

  From her first appearance at the principal French theatre, she contrived to assert her power by her really masterly wit, which was never at a loss and which combined in the most harmonious and natural manner — even in her highest flights for which one was grateful as one is grateful to any queen of art who rises above the level — the superior qualities of her nationality. She displayed her personality with matchless lure. She dressed with supreme elegance in the height of fashion. From the outset, criticism transported, invented a term which, as the saying goes, suited her to perfection and clung to her. She was called “the magnificent Irene.”

  A distinguished critic wrote of her: “Her features unite French grace with the regularity and nobility of the Greek form. Her figure is that of Apollo’s sister as she plunges into the Eurotus surrounded by her nymphs. In this beautiful body dwells a spirit impatient to be free — here is no marble statue, but Pygmalion’s Galatea impregnated with warmth and life, and, in a sense, oppressed by the weight of the diverse feelings which surge in her breast.” So much for the prose writer. Let us now quote the words of a poet:

  “With hair whose golden gleams seem to have borrowed their warmth from the sunlight, Irene resembles a Sicilian medallion or an Ægian Isis in has relief. Her wide forehead, full at the temples, not too lofty, is like that of the Venus of Milo, self-willed, masterful and voluptuous. The arch of her brows is traced with wonderful purity and delicacy over a pair of eyes which flash with dramatic fire; her nose, fine and straight with sloping nostrils, possesses a line of exquisite shapeliness; her mouth firm and curved at the corners is expressive of superb scorn like that of Nemesis lying in wait to let loose the avenging lion with its iron claws. And yet her mouth has the power of smiling with radiant and queenly grace, and when she condescends to portray the tenderest passions it cannot be said that she is giving utterance to classical imprecations or modern maledictions. Her chin, indicative of strength and determination, completes the stately contour of a countenance pertaining rather to a goddess than a woman.... And her voice!... A play actress in her every gesture, in her smile, in the fold of her robe, in the form and colour of her attire, she is above all a play actress in the tone of her voice, a voice in turns pathetic, despairing, innocent, like soft music which reaches the soul by the varied paths of laughter, artlessness, wit, malice, bitter mockery, and the most profound and sacred sentiments....”

  Galatea, Diana, Venus, Nemesis, Isis, Celimene, Margaret Gautier — she portrayed them all. Was she, however, lacking in some quality that deterred her from being the greatest actress of her time? Her enemies — she had enemies though she did not deserve to have them, for even in her benefactions to the poor she was magnificent — maintained that she was without heart. They meant to convey that she would not die for her art. What did they know of her who meanly disparaged her? If they were to be believed, the fire at which she lit the torch which she held aloft in the name of art, illumined her rather than glowed from within her. Other persons jealous of her youthful fame declared that “it was all the working of her brain and not of her senses.” These, doubtless, were merely calumniating her integrity, for Irene was intensely virtuous.

  Had Irene then no faults?

  Yes! She was a coquette. Irene de Troie (of the Comédie Française) the national Celimene (of those days) was a terrible coquette.

  She despised no man’s compliments, which is as much as to say that she could not live without them. Indifference to her, even in the most inoffensive and unimportant person, gave her pain. She knew no peace until she had vanquished him. As Irene was a virtuous woman she had thus made many a man unhappy. Her recent marriage — for she was married — to a young and famous author, was the fruit of this coquetterie as much as of love. We shall return to this subject later, for not the least curious side of her destiny was that she should marry in order to have at her feet a man who held aloof from her with such extraordinary persistence that she all but fell ill of it....

  But let us return to Irene in Brazil. It was two o’clock in the morning and bed-time. A knock came at the door. She seemed to recognize Sylvia’s peculiar hand though she had only just left her. She opened the door. A masculine form stood before her. She tried to shut him out, but the nocturnal visitor interposed his foot.

  “But, monsieur, what do you want?”

  The man did not reply. He forced his way in, locked the door behind him, put the key in his pocket, and began to apologize....

  “Don Manoel de Carangola!” she exclaimed in a tone of irritation rather than alarm.

  “Your servant... senhora.”

  “You the grand master! You the permanent secretary of the Fine Arts! You whom I respected and admired! You in my room and in this state at this hour of the night! But what in heaven’s name are you here for?”

  I’ve brought you the Cross of a Commander of the Order of Vasco da Gama.”

  So saying his Excellency, breathless and in a flutter, took from his pocket a splendid jewel-worthy of being a family heirloom.

  This Cross would have kept until to-night,” said Irene, now laughing.

  “But I couldn’t wait,” returned the other, steadying himself against the wall, for in his excitement his legs shook under him.

  “Come, compose yourself. Take a chair and let’s talk.”

  The grand master dropped into a seat which Irene pushed towards him and swept his handkerchief across his forehead. He still held the decoration which she had not taken from him, and shone like the Southern Cross.

  Manoel de Carangola was not one of those characters of South American nationality, too often to be seen in French farce, who wear a fiery-red tie, a diamond pin like the stopper of a decanter, a gold watch chain with huge trinkets hanging to it, and use the language of the wealthy alien who has got away from his plantation for the express purpose of conquering “Bohemian society.”

  He was a desc
endant of an old Portuguese family. He had inherited great wealth and a title of nobility, but his manners were rather those of a public official than of a nobleman. He was in the forties, and his hair was greying at the temples. He had made a prudent marriage, and was the father of six daughters. He had never betrayed any eccentricity, and was looked upon as an inoffensive and amiable citizen.

  His country was proud of him. He had devoted the major portion of his income to the service of literature and art, adding an entirely new lustre to the Musical and Dramatic Academiés, and endowing the city with two libraries which were now the foremost in South America. Brazil in its gratitude had created for him this honorary post of grand master, enabling him to watch over the development of his work heedless of political vicissitudes and ministerial changes. Having withdrawn among his books and collections while still a young man, he lived a quiet, uneventful life with his family, free from adventure, for he did not even travel in his own country; and apart from polite literature his one interest was centred in his collection of birds for which he had built in his own domain a veritable menagerie; and his one hobby was the teaching of Latin in every school in the Republic; so that he had the self-contained air of the sedentary scholar who may be seen in Paris between the Pantheon and the Bibliothèque St, Geneviève, and knows only such secrets of nature as are imparted by the Luxembourg Gardens. Added to this he was becoming corpulent and wore large spectacles.

  That a man of his character, known for his polished and fastidious tastes, should in so gross a fashion force the door of a Queen of the Stage accustomed to the most respectful attentions, was calculated to alarm and surprise Irene. He had undoubtedly lost his head. But why? Was she to blame for treating him with a shade of coquetry? Irene could not tell, because flirtation with her was the very breath of life. She wanted to know.

  “Come, grand master, let’s have this out. Have you suddenly taken leave of your senses?” Manoel placed the glittering decoration on a table near him and made the motion of swallowing.