Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “On principle I should believe quite the reverse of anything Sylvia might say, but what you say is another matter. If you really want me to believe you, I will believe you.”

  “With a mental reservation,” returned Irene bitterly.

  “Well, one cannot control one’s thoughts. However, if I see that they hurt you too much I’ll manage to banish them from my mind.”

  “That’s very good of you! I should like you to put your thoughts into words.”

  “Of course. I may as well unbosom myself to you, and then, perhaps I shall get rid of them. But first finish reading Sylvia’s letter.”

  “Yes. Up to now we have only read the beginning,” said Irene, and proceeded to read the letter’ aloud:

  “... You must not imagine that Ouenetrou has ceased to care for me. After I took your place I won an influence over him little suspected by you. He did nothing without consulting me, but no day passed without his expressing his resentment against you. Your flight put him in a terrible rage against you; so that one might say that Ouenetrou’s heart is divided into two parts — one filled with love for me, and the other with hatred for you. When I told you, on the eve of your escape, that Ouenetrou in reality loved only you, I said that so as to spare your self-esteem since you had so greatly suffered. To-day he is after both of us, and we shall never get away from him unless we unite forces against him. Therefore I have thought it necessary to state the facts precisely so that the parts we play may be properly divided. He execrates you, madame, and nothing you may do will mollify him. He loves me still, he loves me enough to kill me, but I still retain a weapon against him, for in spite of my flight, which was brought — about — by the precarious — position in which we found ourselves — he failed to discover the cases hidden in the cliff — and my desire to return to civilized life, I am pretty sure that I have not lost all my influence with him, but I do not intend to use it solely in my own behalf. And if I have to make another sacrifice, I should only consent to do so if this sacrifice were to help — us both. You know — how devoted I am to you! — I have already won — over to your cause the person most difficult to convince — I mean Dona Maria — who must have called on you by now and told you that I think only of you, of your safety which is dear to me, and that my greatest desire is to enter your service again. Once in your employ you will have nothing to fear. Think over it! The matter is most serious, and I am waiting a letter from you telling me to join you as soon as possible.

  “Your devoted servant,

  “SYLVIA.”

  “The dreadful woman,” murmured Irene.

  “Yes, I agree, and since you wish to know my innermost thoughts I will tell you,” returned the Comtesse. “Personally I consider that this dreadful woman occupies a very important position in this affair. Don’t be offended. Imagine that some stranger is talking to you. Assuming that this woman has a hold upon you owing to the wonderful subterfuge that you invented between you after the occurrence to avert the danger of an act of folly or weakness with regard to de Carangola, and perhaps of terror with regard to the Patagonian who could force you by his cruelty to yield to him, she would not speak or write in any other way. The coolness, I will even say the insolence, of the letter, which is practically an ultimatum in disguise, must strengthen enormously this mental reservation in a third party of which I spoke and which I find it difficult to get rid of. Excuse my plain speaking.”

  “But this is awful,” cried Irene, who could scarcely listen to her friend in patience. “If you do not believe me who will believe me? We have invented nothing. The whole truth can be summed up in a sentence: It was not I but Sylvia who became the mistress of de Carangola and Ouenetrou.”

  “Well, in that case,” exclaimed Sarah, “I tell you that this girl becomes of undreamt-of importance. What! These two men became madly in love with her!... Now we know the sort of woman she is. What could they see in her?”

  “I am wondering,” said Irene. “You ought to know better than I do seeing that de Carangola let you into the secret.”

  “My dear Irene, I have told you what a stranger would think. I will now leave you, but I assure you that personally I wish to believe you, and do believe you.”

  Irene submitted to be kissed and did not detain the Comtesse, and no sooner had she departed than the door was opened again and Octave came in. He looked gloomily at Irene, and seemed no less depressed than she was.

  “We must save the remnants of our love,” he said in a strained voice. “You have received visits this morning which you could very well have done without. I should probably have known nothing about them had not the maid sought me out at the shanty quite bewildered: ‘Monsieur, a sort of adventuress of the Spanish type is with madame. She insisted on seeing her, saying it was a matter of life or death. I thought it well to come and tell you at once. This woman is with madame and the Comtesse de Tardenois in the boudoir on the ground floor.’

  “I hurried over, feeling very anxious, but slightly comforted as Sarah was with you. On the way, the maid mentioned that the woman had given her name as Dona Maria de Carangola, and was preceded by a man, an eccentric person, who jumped out or the window when he heard she was here. I was sure that he was her husband.

  “I at once had a look round the house, examining the immediate precincts, and came to the boudoir window, which remained open. I did not perceive the husband, who must be still running, but I threw a glance into the boudoir to ascertain this woman’s bearing and discover any action which you might not perhaps see, but would enlighten me as to her object. I must tell you that as a result of all this I heard what Dona Maria said.”

  Here Octave paused and looked at Irene.

  “Well,” said Irene, greatly perturbed, “I have nothing more to tell you.”

  “Here, then, we have the cause,” pursued Octave in increasingly gloomy tones, “of this man’s pursuit, of his attachment to you, and of all his folly — he believed that you could refuse him nothing because you had already granted him everything....”

  “Yes, dear, he imagined so.”

  “And it was Sylvia who...?”

  “It was Sylvia.”

  A silence fell, and Octave went on:

  “When Dona Maria went away, I must tell you, I left my position near the window. I considered that all danger was over, that it was not for me to interfere, that above all I ought not to listen. It would have been utterly contemptible to remain there any longer. I know nothing, therefore, of what afterwards passed between you and Sarah. But I want to know, and I have come to you to tell me. What did Sarah think of this exchange of persons, of this farcical subterfuge which Sylvia described to Dona Maria? Did Sarah believe her?”

  “No, she did not believe her.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that Sylvia occupied an immensely important position in the matter, and she could not understand two men falling madly in love with her.... And I see, Octave, that you share her opinion.”

  “Listen, my dear Irene. It would be excusable if it were so, for Sylvia, as a matter of fact, is not particularly attractive, and what we know of her cold and unemotional nature in no way prepares us to see these two men successively carried away by her even had the subterfuge been adopted and succeeded. One of these men left everything — wife and children — for her. The other went so far as to commit a murder to keep you. Now, between ourselves, I have spoken to you as my reason dictates, whatever pain it may cause me.”

  “Oh, since you do not believe me, I have nothing further to say. I am tired of the struggle. I see that I have lost you once more.”

  “No, no, Irene, you have not lost me. The whole thing belongs to the horrible past. We have spent weeks together which wipe out everything.”

  “But there is nothing to wipe out,” groaned Irene.

  “I’m glad of that.... Finish packing your trunks, and I will come for you in five minutes from now, and we’ll go away — far from here.”

  “You make me th
e offering of your pity. I cannot accept it,” said Irene.

  “Unfortunately, if I make an offering to anyone it is to myself. I love you, and I’m perfectly certain it’s not Sylvia I love. Allow me to be as persistent in my love as those who loved Sylvia.” And picking up Sylvia’s letter, which was on the floor: “On, a letter from that girl. May I read it?”

  “By all means.”

  He read the letter and returned it to Irene.

  “This is blackmail.... Sylvia wants money, and we’ll give it to her. And we’ll see no more of her. She’ll go back to her Ouenetrou, since he thinks so much of her. But in heaven’s name what can he see in her?”

  He left Irene and ordered the chauffeur to be ready in a quarter of an hour. Irene no longer had the strength even to cry. Everything conspired against her, and she could not blame either Sarah or her husband for refusing to accept with blind faith a story which seemed to partake rather of the fantastic than the romantic. If anything remained of the spirit of justice in her, she was bound to be grateful to Octave for showing so much real goodness in spite of circumstances which did violence to his love for her and mocked his self-respect.

  She gave a deep sigh, which expressed her dejection, and made her final preparations for departure. Then she sank into an armchair and waited for Octave. She was like an automaton. She had lost control of herself. She allowed herself to drift. Still Octave did not return. A quarter of an hour, half an hour sped by.

  At length Irene rose and went over to the shanty. Octave should have returned at least twenty minutes before. She opened the door, entered the front passage, and seemed to hear voices in the study. She opened the study door and uttered a muffled exclamation. She was face to face with Octave and Sylvia, who seemed greatly perturbed at the sight of her.

  For a moment or two she could not speak.

  “You!” at last she exclaimed to her former maid. “What are you doing here?”

  Sylvia quickly recovered her self-possession.

  “I was coming to see you, madame, when I met monsieur, who told me to attend him here. He offered me money to disappear so that you may not hear of me again. But I don’t go in for that sort of thing. Then monsieur wanted to know exactly what passed between me and Don Manoel de Carangola. He has asked me no end of questions. I have done my best to satisfy him, and hope I have succeeded.”

  “That is true, Irene. Had I retained the least doubt as to what you said it would have been removed; Sylvia has been good enough to tell me the story in detail of the extraordinary farce to which you were reduced to get rid of de Carangola. Now I believe you.”

  Octave’s words sounded strangely in Irene’s ears. Her eyes shot terrible glances at Sylvia, who withstood them with intolerable impudence. Irene dared not look round. She seemed to have noticed when she came in, some signs of confusion.

  “Go!” she said simply to Sylvia.

  “Are you turning me out?” asked Sylvia.

  “Yes.”

  Sylvia looked from one to the other and said as she went away:

  “You are very ungrateful, madame.”

  When they were alone Octave tried to take Irene’s hand.

  “Don’t touch me.... Don’t touch me just now, please.”

  “But what’s in your mind?”

  “For heaven’s sake don’t question me.... Have I questioned you? I don’t want to know anything — anything.”

  And in a burst of strident laughter which gave way to a fit of sobbing:

  “The main thing is that you are satisfied.”

  And the hapless Irene’s thoughts turned to St. Thomas, the apostle, who had said: “Except I shall see I will not believe.”

  EPILOGUE

  “I am depressed in the town and wearied in the country.”

  — Desbordes-Valmore.

  THEY went away. Irene obtained from the directors of the theatre leave of absence to which no limit was set but her complete restoration to health.

  During the first week of their travels the two lovers, still smarting from the blows with which a too malicious fate had beset them, were somewhat dejected. And then, as they had youth and looks and ability, love possessed them in its entirety, and all else was relegated to the background.

  “All else” for Irene was the remembrance of Sylvia and her impudence in Octave’s study. That impudence, after all, could only have been assumed to excite Irene’s imagination and “to make her die of jealousy,” as the saying goes.

  Now Irene, completely herself again, had the good sense no longer to dwell on the possibility of Sylvia coming between her and her husband after taking her place with de Carangola and Ouenetrou. The whole adventure seemed so remote that she could look upon it in a proper light.

  One day she received a letter from Sylvia which had been following her all over Europe, and caused her much amusement:

  “MADAME, — I should not like to leave Paris without informing you of the delight which it has been to me to render you a final service. You are doubtless aware that Don Manoel fell into the hands of his family. When the luckless man found himself a prisoner he repeated what had before been so successful. He went on strike — hunger strike. But this time Dona Maria, knowing all there was to be known of the facts with which you are familiar, made no attempt to see you, but appealed to me to bring her husband back to the paths of reason by convincing him that the memory which he retained of you was a pure chimera.

  “Dona Maria had been too kind to me for me to refuse this little request, and I succeeded so well in proving to Don Manoel that his infatuation for you was merely a wild fancy, that the worthy gentleman, who is highly strung, and in whose veins courses, he tells me, the blood of the great Adamastor, was smitten with the greatest love for the chimera itself, that is to say, for your humble servant.

  “So much so that Dona Maria and her six daughters, proposing to take Don Manoel back to Rio de Janeiro, that gentleman would only consent to make the voyage if I returned there myself. Dona Maria and I arranged the matter in our mutual interests. And that is how you, madame, have been freed from de Carangola.

  “But this is not the last of the services which I had the pleasure of rendering you. When Ouenetrou, who was still lying low somewhere in the background, meditating some wicked deed, as I warned you — when Ouenetrou learnt that de Carangola was taking me back to Rio de Janeiro, his hatred and jealousy of Don Manoel immensely increased his love for me, so that he returned to Rio on the same boat with us. He promised me never to go back to the pampas, but to build up his fortune again in Rio, to which town he had sent a new consignment of ladies’ hats.

  “Dona Maria, fearing lest some tragedy might ensue as a result of these gentlemen being brought together, began to bemoan the uncertain fate of her husband, but I succeeded in reassuring her. I made it clear that nothing unpleasant would occur either to the one or the other. Thanks be, I have known how to get out of worse entanglements, and under my guidance this little love affair will soon lose the savage nature which you managed to impart to it, and assume the dignified and refined aspect characteristic of good society. It is not enough to lecture on the benefits of civilization, one must know how to spread these benefits around us.

  “Therefore, madame, you are now, thanks to my services, relieved of de Carangola and Languequetrou. I no longer call him Ouenetrou, for he has renounced his throne as I have renounced being queen. I prefer a hat shop in the Rua do Ouvidor. You may be easy in your mind henceforward, and happy with monsieur, who well deserves his good fortune.

  “Your faithful servant,

  “SYLVIA.”

  “What an extraordinary person,” exclaimed Octave.

  “Hold your tongue,” said Irene, laughing. “You will end by saying that Sylvia has something in her.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “You forget that you once said: ‘What can they see in Sylvia?’ Well, she is an extraordinary person. I agree, but we’ll say no more about it.”

  Several weeks
followed in which their happiness was so complete that it became almost monotonous. Irene declared that she was tired of the theatre and its false distinction. She spoke even of turning her back on it, and sending in her resignation to the Comédie Française, but Octave, who, in his capacity as playwright, had fathomed the feminine mind, dissuaded her.

  Possibly, also, for his part, he realized that it would be difficult to keep his beloved Irene at his side when he took up once more his study of Merovingian history, which is of no great interest to women. And soon he had occasion to rejoice at having warned Irene not to come to a resolution that she might afterwards regret. Observing one day that she looked somewhat wistful and downcast, he asked her what was the matter.

  “I cannot tell you for I hardly know myself,” she said. “You know how much attached I am to my country. Doubtless, without realizing it, I long to see it again. Yes, I should like once more to see France for which I have done so much!”

  “And for which you are burning to do more. Confess it, Irene! You are young, and it is natural that you should wish to utilize your splendid gifts.”

  “Upon my word, it may be so.”

  “And are you not burning to renew the theatrical successes of the past?”

  “Well, my dear Octave, I don’t see how I can serve my country again if — let me say the odious word — I do not return to the boards.”

  “Then, Irene, you must write to the theatre.”

  “As we are of the same mind I don’t see why I should hide from you that I have already written.”

  “Then we will wait the reply.”

  “I have received it, my dear. The directors are delighted for me to resume my place in the theatre.”

  “What part do you propose to appear in?”

  “That’s what they asked me.”

  “And have you more or less made up your mind?”

  “Dear me, yes. I shall say that I will make my appearance in the part of Celimene.”

  THE END