‘One more word, my master... and you will have appeased my conscience in a way you can not suspect... but I’ll explain to you later.’
‘What is it?’ asked Lonstalot, stopping at the head of the stairs.
‘Just this: those who said that Eliphas was able to kill Martin Latouche by means of the murder tune, swore that Maxime d’Aulnay was killed by means of rays of light.’
‘Rays of light, was it?... You should be locked up in an asylum! Why rays of light?’
‘Yes, that’s true. By means of a special apparatus some one directed at him some light rays previously poisoned. A ray of light struck him while he was reading his speech. Before he fell to the floor, it was recalled, he made a gesture as though to brush a fly off his face; in reality the bright light was troubling him.’
‘Ah... it was sent... so, in the eye?’
‘Finally, according to the secret of Toth, one may be killed through the mouth or the nose. These idiots - for they can’t be called anything else - these idiots, my dear master, chose death through the nose for Jean Mortimar.’
‘That was a very appropriate end, my dear sir,’ answered Lonstalot, ‘for the poet of Tragic Perfumes’
‘That’s true. Perfumes are often more tragic than one might think.’
‘Stuff and nonsense.’
‘Laugh, my dear master, laugh. But you’re going to laugh still more. These men swear that the first letter sent to Jean Mortimar, containing the terrible inscription about perfumes, is authentic, and in Eliphas’ handwriting; but that the second was sent only as a bad joke. In his letter Eliphas enclosed insidious poison, like those used by the Borglas. You must have heard about them.’
‘Very bold, I’ll say.’
You might have expected that the scorn with which Lonstalot answered Lalouette’s serious questions would have exhausted the patience of the antique and art authority. On the contrary, that authority could restrain his happiness no longer. He clasped the great Lonstalot in his arms. He embraced him so violently that the famous little scientist kicked with all the power of his short legs.
‘Let me go,’ he cried, ‘let me go, or I’ll set my dogs on you!’
But - by a miracle - the dogs were no longer there, and Lalouette’s happiness was complete.
‘Ah,’ he kept saying to himself, ‘what a relief... how good you are... how great... what a genius!’
‘You’re mad,’ said the angry Lonstalot when he could at last free himself. He couldn’t understand what was happening.
‘No, they’re the ones who are crazy. Keep on telling me that, my dear master, and then I’ll leave.’
‘Of course, they’re all mad.’
‘Ah, yes, all of them are mad, I repeat it, all, all mad.’
‘All mad,’ the scientist echoed.
And both together joined in the chorus, ‘All mad! All mad!’
Finally, Lalouette took his leave, all politeness. Lonstalot went down to the court with him and there, noticing that night had already set in, he said to Lalouette, ‘Wait a moment, I’ll get a lantern and go with you to the end of the street. I don’t want to have you fall into the river.’
In a moment he came back with a small lighted lantern. He opened and closed the big gate himself. The giant Tobie was nowhere to be seen.
‘Who said that this man was always dreaming?’ said Lalouette to himself. ‘He thinks of every little thing.’
They walked on for about ten minutes. When they reached the Marne they found a comfortable path. Before leaving Lonstalot, Lalouette offered his apologies once more for having taken so much of his time.
‘It’s plain to see, my dear master, that our wonderful Paris has sunk very low. Here we have three perfectly natural deaths. Instead of explaining them, as you and I do, in a reasonable light, Paris would rather believe in some quacks who arrogate to themselves a power that would make the gods blush.’
‘Insolence!’ was Lonstalot’s last word and he hurried back with his lantern, leaving Lalouette, completely dumbfounded, standing alone in the darkness on the banks of the Marne.
In the distance flickered the light in the lantern; it danced... played, and then that light, too, disappeared. Suddenly a terrifying shriek, the great cry of death, a human yell, echoed and re-echoed in the distance; this was followed by the long drawn-out, desperate baying of the watch dogs.
Lalouette, panting with the horror of that terrible howl, suddenly stopped. Then it seemed that the shrieking of the beasts was coming nearer and nearer... he turned and fled as fast as his legs could carry him.
Chapter 7. The Man Who Could Not Read
UP TO NOW the members of the French Academy had always been referred to as the Forty Immortals. But now the die was cast. Every one spoke of them as the ‘Thirty-Nine,’ never the ‘Forty.’
Many months had passed since the tragic death of Martin Latouche. Not an other soul had presented himself as a candidate for the Haunted Chair! It was becoming more and more evident to the public, following the three mysterious deaths, that no one had the courage to seek the fortieth seat.
What a pitiful plight the Academy faced! On occasions which ordinarily the Academicians would have graced with their presence, they now would feign sickness, or dig up a suffering relative in some distant corner of the world so as not to have to appear in public wearing oak leaves on their heads and the pearl-handled sword at their sides!
The investigation had been rapidly brought to a close and the affair duly pigeon-holed.
It was apparent that the only memory of that terrible incident, an incident in which an over-imaginative public had seen only crimes, was that of the chair that brought bad luck. And if that unexplained triple murder had ever had anything sinister about it, it was all forgotten now in that expression - uttered with a smile - ‘The Thirty-Nine.’
Things had come to such a pass that when other vacancies occurred, the members had to seek candidates for these chairs — while all this was going on, two or three chairs had become vacant. Opportunity was never lost to poke fun at them for offering themselves for any chair except that of d’Abbeville — the Haunted Chair.
Hippolyte Patard had changed greatly. Up to this time Patard had been a man of two colours — pink and yellow. Now there was another — a third - and it could hardly be called a colour; rather it was the ashen shade of the Greek Goddesses of Purgatory.
Following the death of Martin Latouche his remorse was so terrible that he took to his bed, and in his delirium they heard him accuse himself over and over for causing the death of the poor old man. He kept on pleading with Babette for forgiveness. It was only when his colleagues convinced him that the Academy had never had greater need of him, that he rose from his bed and resumed his beloved tasks.
One day as several members of the Academy were sitting in a disgruntled mood they were startled by the entrance of an apoplectic Hippolyte Patard. The secretary was speechless with excitement; he kept waving a slip of paper in the air, but no sound escaped his trembling lips; finally, they got him into a chair; they snatched the sheet of paper out of his hand and this is what they read:
I have the honour to present myself as a candidate for the chair left vacant by the deaths of M. d’Abbeville, M. Jean de Mortimar, M. Maxime d’Aulnay and M. Martin Latouche.
Jules-Louis-Gaspard Lalouette, author, officer of the Academy
32 his rue Laffitte, Paris.
They looked at each other in a kind of dumb surprise! Then they threw their arms around each other’s necks and, like schoolboys, danced for joy. Since then, if one academy member wishes to express his great happiness tangibly to a fellow member, he speaks of the embrace Lalouette.
They laughed, they hugged each other; then all seven present laughed some more. For there were only seven. Lately their meetings had been so dreary that few troubled to attend them.
Those seven decided to go at once to call on Jules-Louis-Gaspard Lalouette. They were anxious to size him up without delay; to pledge him to
their academic fate.
They waited only until Patard regained his self-control; then they hurried away in two taxis. How they discussed him!
In the first taxi they said: ‘Just who is this Monsieur Lalouette, author? The name sounds a little familiar. It seems to me I noticed his name in the papers in connection with some recent work.’
In the second taxi, one of them said: ‘Wasn’t it rather strange that he should write his title after his signature! “Officer of the Academy?”’
‘Only shows he’s a very intelligent man who wants to have us understand that he’s already one of us,’ said another.
And they found life very sweet.
Monsieur Hippolyte Patard, though, was silent. His joy was too personal and too precious to be dissipated in mere words.
Unlike the others, he didn’t ask, ‘Who is this Lalouette? What has he had published?’ That was of no consequence at all. What was important was that he was the Fortieth Member, and for that very reason he must have genius.
So they reached no. 32½ rue Laffitte, a very nice-looking house. To the superintendent’s question as to whom they sought, they answered, ‘Monsieur Lalouette.’
‘He’s probably in his shop.’
All seven looked at each other, amazed.
‘In his shop? Monsieur Lalouette, the writer?’ There must be some mistake. So Patard explained that they wanted to call on a Monsieur Lalouette, who was an ‘officer of the Academy.’
‘Yes, that’s the one. I think he’s in his shop. The entrance is on the street.’
All seven bowed to the good man, all equally astonished and deeply deceived. They reached the street, and stood before an antique-shop over the door of which they read: ‘Gaspard Lalouette.’ In the windows were displayed some odds and ends of bric-a-brac, and an old, faded oil painting.
‘They seem to sell a little bit of everything here,’ said one of the party as he drew down the corners of his mouth.
‘Something very strange about this,’ said the chancellor. ‘That man’s card has “author” on it.’
Patard broke in sternly. ‘I beseech you, my friends, don’t be discouraged.’
He opened the door, the others followed him into the shop in silence.
From the rear swept toward them a white-haired matronly woman wearing around her neck a handsome heavy gold chain.
Patard bowed ceremoniously, and said they wished to speak to Monsieur Lalouette, author, and officer of the Academy.
‘And whom shall I announce?’ the lady asked.
In the tone of a sergeant on parade, he ordered:
‘Announce the French Academy!’ And as he said it, he fixed his eyes on his little battalion with an expression which seemed to say that one false move from them would land them all in the police station.
The lady gasped. One hand dropped on her opulent bosom; she stifled a little cry; her head began to swim. Then she disappeared into the shadows from which she had come.
‘That’s probably Madame Lalouette,’ said Patard. ‘She’s very nice.’
Presently she came back, and with her a mild little man wearing a handsome heavy gold chain across his rounded stomach. As pale as marble he came, speechless, toward his visitors.
Patard tried to put him at his ease.
‘You are, sir, Monsieur Gaspard Lalouette, officer of the Academy, author, who wishes to apply for the chair left vacant by the death of Monsieur d’Abbeville? If so, sir’ — Lalouette, unable to speak, could only nod his affirmation— ‘the Director of the Academy, the Chancellor, my colleagues and myself, Monsieur Hippolyte Patard, the Perpetual Secretary, offer you our most sincere congratulations. Your example proves that there will always be found in France a citizen whose courage and intelligence put to shame the stupidity of the masses.’
As he spoke he shook hands solemnly and impressively with Monsieur Gaspard Lalouette.
‘Well, say something, Gaspard,’ said the white-haired lady.
Lalouette looked at his wife, then at those distinguished gentlemen, then at his wife, then once more at Patard, whose kindly expression gave him some confidence.
‘Sir,’ he stammered, ‘I’m quite overwhelmed by this honour. Allow me to introduce to you the missus.’
The lightest possible smile played across the lips of the chancellor and the director at the expression, ‘the missus.’ But one ominous glance from Patard brought them back sharply to the seriousness of the occasion.
Madame Lalouette bowed and said:
‘The gentlemen would probably like to talk things over without being disturbed. They will be more comfortable in the back room.’ And she led them to the back of the shop.
Even Patard had been slightly amused by that ‘back room.’ But the distinguished members of the Academy found themselves in a veritable little museum, in which everything was arranged with the best of taste. The walls were hung with priceless paintings and tapestries; and on the tables were exquisite pieces of old lace, little bronze statues, beautiful carved boxes — choice bits of all kinds.
‘Oh, Madame, so this is what you call your back room! You are too modest. There’s not a drawing-room in the whole of Paris that has so many beautiful, rare and artistic objects as you have right here.’
‘As fine as anything in the Louvre,’ said the director.
‘That’s what I’m always telling my husband!’ spoke up Madame Lalouette. ‘I’ve just made him understand what I mean, so the next issue of the directory will not read: ‘Gaspard Lalouette, art dealer,’ but ‘Gaspard Lalouette, collector.’
‘Madame,’ cried Patard admiringly, ‘you’re a wonderful woman!’ And he kissed her hand.
‘Oh, but then he’ll be a member of the Academy!’
A sudden silence fell on the group. They cleared their throats nervously. Patard, a severe expression in his eye, took a seat.
‘Sit down all of you,’ he ordered; ‘we must talk seriously.’
Madame Lalouette fingered her handsome heavy gold chain. Beside her, Gaspard Lalouette riveted his attention on the Perpetual Secretary. He wore the anxious expression of a dull little schoolboy face to face with the examiner.
‘Monsieur Lalouette,’ Patard began, ‘you are a writer; you love books, and you have already published something.’
‘I have published two books,’ said Lalouette, ‘which, if I may say so, have been very well received by the public.’
‘Good; and their titles?’
‘Concerning the Art of Picture-Framing.’
‘That’s fine!’
‘And another on the authenticity of the signatures of our greatest painters.’
‘Splendid!’
‘Of course, these are not books for the general public, but all art-lovers know them!’
‘My husband is very modest,’ said Madame Lalouette, toying with her gold chain. ‘We have a letter of congratulation from a gentleman who knows the real value of my husband’s work. I refer to the Prince de Condé.’
‘The Prince de Condé!’ exclaimed the academicians, on their feet at once, as one man.
‘Here’s the letter,’ and as she took it from her full blouse, she added:
‘It never leaves my possession. Next to Monsieur Lalouette, it’s the dearest thing I have in the world.’
All the visitors examined the letter. It was from the prince and was couched in most flattering terms. There was great rejoicing. Hippolyte Patard seized Monsieur Lalouette’s hand and almost shook his arm off. ‘My dear colleague,’ he said, ‘you’re a real hero!’
‘Indeed you are, a real hero!’ came in chorus.
‘And,’ Patard clinched the matter, ‘the French Academy will be honoured to welcome such a hero to its bosom.’
The academicians, curious to know how Monsieur Lalouette stood in regard to the recent regrettable incidents in the Academy, had only one fear — that he would change his mind about becoming a member. They questioned him deftly and then let him talk. In the meanwhile they were appraising h
im and they found him good. But their approval was soon to turn to a profound admiration for his learning.
Patard and the chancellor fell into quite an argument over the difference between the meaning of the words ‘jowl’ and ‘cheek-pouch.’
It was Lalouette who cut the discussion short. He explained that ‘Cheek-pouch’ was a noun in the feminine gender. Pockets, which monkeys and other prehensile animals carry under the cheeks on each side of the mouth. These pouches are reservoirs in which to stow foods not in immediate use. In the case of bats they assist flight, permitting the introduction of air under the skin.
Even though they were Academy members they had nothing to refute such learning. But soon their admiration was to turn to consternation when with the greatest historical accuracy, he used the exact technical term for a curious table the members had noticed in his collection. He quoted the great name of Vitruve as his authority. At the mention of that world-renowned name, they all bowed their heads, except Patard, whose eyes glistened with satisfaction. Vitruve had conquered him.
‘At last, a man worthy to sit in Monsieur d’Abbeville’s chair!’
Now they addressed Lalouette with great respect. In a few minutes these gentlemen, slightly self-conscious and fearing to make some slight slip in grammar, took their leave. They congratulated Lalouette; they all kissed the hand of ‘the missus’ who, since her husband’s display of erudition, seemed to them a most imposing person.
Patard did not leave with the others. Lalouette had indicated there was something important on his mind.
Lalouette got rid of Madame Lalouette.
‘Run along, little girl!’ he said to her.
‘What can I do for you, my dear colleague?’ he asked anxiously.
‘There is something I must tell you in confidence; it is between you and me; but I must keep nothing back from you... between us we might be able to adjust certain little embarrassments... as, for example... the speech.’
‘What’s that... the speech?... What do you mean, my dear Monsieur Lalouette? I don’t understand... don’t you know how to write your speech?...’
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 499
