The Perfume of the Lady in Black
[Illustration]
THE PERFUME OF
THE LADY IN BLACK
By GASTON LEROUX
_Author of “The Mystery of the Yellow Room”_
NEW YORK
BRENTANO’S
1909
Copyright, 1909, by
BRENTANO’S
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I WHICH BEGINS WHERE MOST ROMANCES
END 9
II IN WHICH THERE IS QUESTION OF THE
CHANGING HUMORS OF JOSEPH ROULETABILLE 24
III THE PERFUME 31
IV EN ROUTE 45
V PANIC 60
VI THE FORT OF HERCULES 83
VII WHICH TELLS OF SOME PRECAUTIONS
TAKEN BY JOSEPH ROULETABILLE TO
DEFEND THE FORT OF HERCULES
AGAINST THE ATTACKS OF AN ENEMY 102
VIII WHICH CONTAINS SOME PAGES FROM THE
HISTORY OF JEAN-ROUSSEL-LARSAN
BALLMEYER 126
IX IN WHICH OLD BOB UNEXPECTEDLY ARRIVES 135
X THE EVENTS OF THE ELEVENTH OF APRIL 157
XI THE ATTACK OF THE SQUARE TOWER 205
XII THE IMPOSSIBLE BODY 216
XIII IN WHICH THE FEARS OF ROULETABILLE
ASSUME ALARMING PROPORTIONS 228
XIV THE SACK OF POTATOES 248
XV THE SIGHS OF THE NIGHT 266
XVI THE DISCOVERY OF AUSTRALIA 274
XVII OLD BOB’S TERRIBLE ADVENTURE 288
XVIII HOW DEATH STALKED ABROAD AT NOONDAY 297
XIX IN WHICH ROULETABILLE ORDERS THE
IRON DOORS TO BE CLOSED 311
XX IN WHICH ROULETABILLE GIVES A CORPOREAL
DEMONSTRATION OF THE POSSIBILITY
OF THE “BODY TOO MANY” 320
EPILOGUE 357
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Facing Page_
Rouletabille had hidden himself in the shadow of a
pillar 14
He stood erect, wrapped in the rags of a long
coat which hung about his legs, bareheaded
and barefooted 52
The Plan of the Fort of Hercules 87
The Fort of Hercules 90
It made us nervous and restless to look at each
other, seated around the table, mute, leaning
forward, wearing our black spectacles, behind
which it was as impossible to read our
eyes as our thoughts 167
The Plan of the inhabited floor of the Square
Tower 183
He fled from us and rushed further into the
night, shrieking aloud, “The perfume of the
Lady in Black! The perfume of the Lady
in Black!” 203
His eyes seemed glued to his drawing. They
never moved from the paper 234
Rouletabille examined the barrel of Darzac’s revolver
and then compared the weapon with
the other which he held 242
It was Bernier! It was Bernier who lay there,
the death rattle in his throat and a stream
of blood flowing from his breast 302
Ah! That profile standing out darkly from the
depths of the embrasure, lighted up by the
red glow of the setting sun 332
Rouletabille advanced toward him: “Larsan,” he
said, “Larsan, do you give yourself up?”
But Larsan did not reply 352
The Perfume of the Lady in Black
CHAPTER I
WHICH BEGINS WHERE MOST ROMANCES END
The marriage of M. Robert Darzac and Mlle. Mathilde Stangerson took
place in Paris, at the Church of St. Nicolas du Chardonnet, on April
6th, 1895, everything connected with the occasion being conducted in
the quietest fashion possible. A little more than two years had rolled
by since the events which I have recorded in a previous volume--events
so sensational that it is not speaking too strongly to say that an even
longer lapse of time would not have sufficed to blot out the memory of
the famous “Mystery of the Yellow Room.”
There was no doubt in the minds of those concerned that, if the
arrangements for the wedding had not been made almost secretly, the
little church would have been thronged and surrounded by a curious
crowd, eager to gaze upon the principal personages of the drama which
had aroused an interest almost world wide and the circumstances of
which were still present in the minds of the sensation-loving public.
But in this isolated little corner of the city, in this almost unknown
parish, it was easy enough to maintain the utmost privacy. Only a few
friends of M. Darzac and Professor Stangerson, on whose discretion
they felt assured that they might rely, had been invited. I had the
honor to be one of the number.
I reached the church early, and, naturally, my first thought was
to look for Joseph Rouletabille. I was somewhat surprised at not
seeing him, but, having no doubt that he would arrive shortly, I
entered the pew already occupied by M. Henri-Robert and M. Andre
Hesse, who, in the quiet shades of the little chapel, exchanged in
undertones reminiscences of the strange affair at Versailles, which
the approaching ceremony brought to their memories. I listened without
paying much attention to what they were saying, glancing from time to
time carelessly around me.
A dreary place enough is the Church of St. Nicolas du Chardonnet. With
its cracked walls, the lizards running from every corner and dirt--not
the beautiful dust of ages, but the common, ill-smelling, germ-laden
dust of to-day--everywhere, this church, so dark and forbidding on
the outside, is equally dismal within. The sky, which seems rather
to be withdrawn from than above the edifice, sheds a miserly light
which seems to find the greatest difficulty in penetrating through the
dusty panes of unstained glass. Have you read Renan’s “Memories of
Childhood and Youth?” Push open the door of St. Nicolas du Chardonnet
and you will understand how the author of the “Life of Jesus” longed to
die, when as a lad he was a pupil in the little seminary of the Abbe
Duplanloup, close by, and could only leave the school to come to pray
in this church. And it was in this funereal darkness, in a scene which
seemed to have been painted only for mourning and for all the rites
consecrated to sorrow, that the marriage of Robert Darzac and Mathilde
Stangerson was to be solemnized. I could not cast aside the feeling of
foreboding that came over me in these dreary surroundings.
Beside me, M. Henri-Robert and M. Andre Hesse continued to chat, and my
wandering attention was arrested by a remark made by the former:
“I never felt quite easy about Robert and Mathilde,” he said--“not
even after the happy termination of the affair at Versailles--until
I knew that the information of the death of Frederic Larsan had been
officially confirmed. That man was a pitiless enemy.”
It will be remembered, perhaps, by readers of “The Mystery of the
Yellow Room,” that a few months after the acquittal of the Professor
in Sorbonne, there occurred the terrible catastrophe of La Dordogne,
a transatlantic steamer, running between Havre and New York. In the
broiling heat of a summer night, upon the coast of the New World,
La Dordogne had caught fire from an overheated boiler. Before help
could reach her, the steamer was utterly destroyed. Scarcely thirty
passengers were able to leap into the life boats, and these were
picked up the next day by a merchant vessel, which conveyed them to
the nearest port. For days thereafter, the ocean cast up on the beach
hundreds of corpses. And among these, they found Larsan.
The papers which were found carefully hidden in the clothing worn by
the dead man, proved beyond a doubt his identity. Mathilde Stangerson
was at last delivered from this monster of a husband to whom, through
the facility of the American laws, she had given her hand in secret,
in the unthinking ardour of girlish romance. This wretch, whose real
name, according to court records, was Ballmeyer, and who had married
her under the name of Jean Roussel, could no longer rise like a dark
shadow between Mathilde and the man whom she had loved so long and
so well, without daring to become his bride. In “The Mystery of the
Yellow Room,” I have related all the details of this remarkable affair,
one of the strangest which has ever been known in the annals of the
Court of Assizes, and which, without doubt, would have had a most
tragic denouement, had it not been for the extraordinary part played
by a boy reporter, scarcely eighteen years old, Joseph Rouletabille,
who was the only one to discover that Frederic Larsan, the celebrated
Secret Service agent, was none other than Ballmeyer himself. The
accidental--one might almost say “providential”--death of this villain,
had seemed to assure a happy termination to the extraordinary story,
and it must be confessed that it was undoubtedly one of the chief
factors in the rapid recovery of Mathilde Stangerson, whose reason had
been almost overturned by the mysterious horrors at the Glandier.
“You see, my dear fellow,” said M. Henri-Robert to M. Andre Hesse,
whose eyes were roving restlessly about the church, “you see, in
this world, one can always find the bright side. See how beautifully
everything has turned out--even the troubles of Mlle. Stangerson. But
why are you constantly looking around you? What are you looking for? Do
you expect anyone?”
“Yes,” replied M. Hesse. “I expect Frederic Larsan.”
M. Henri-Robert laughed--a decorous little laugh, in deference to
the sanctity of the surroundings. But I felt no inclination to join
in his mirth. I was an hundred leagues from foreseeing the terrible
experience which was even then approaching us; but when I recall that
moment and seek to blot out of my mind all that has happened since--all
those events which I intend to relate in the course of this narrative,
letting the circumstances come before the reader as they came before
us during their development--I recollect once more the curious unrest
which thrilled me at the mention of Larsan’s name.
“What’s the matter, Sainclair?” whispered M. Henri-Robert, who must
have noticed something odd in my expression. “You know that Hesse was
only joking.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” I answered. And I looked attentively
around me, as M. Andre Hesse had done. And, indeed, we had believed
Larsan dead so often when he was known as Ballmeyer, that it seemed
quite possible that he might be once more brought to life in the guise
of Larsan.
“Here comes Rouletabille,” remarked M. Henri-Robert. “I’ll wager that
he isn’t worrying about anything.”
“But how pale he is!” exclaimed M. Andre Hesse in an undertone.
The young reporter joined us and pressed our hands in an absent-minded
manner.
“Good morning, Sainclair. Good morning, gentlemen. I am not late, I
hope?”
It seemed to me that his voice trembled. He left our pew immediately
and withdrew to a dark corner, where I beheld him kneel down like a
child. He hid his face, which was indeed very pale, in his hands, and
prayed. I had never guessed that Rouletabille was of a religious turn
of mind, and his fervent devotion astonished me. When he raised his
head, his eyes were filled with tears. He did not even try to hide
them. He paid no attention to anything or anyone around him. He was
lost completely in his prayers, and, one might imagine, in his grief.
But what could be the occasion of his sorrow? Was he not happy at the
prospect of the union so ardently desired by everyone? Had not the
good fortune of Mathilde Stangerson and Robert Darzac been in a great
measure brought about by his efforts? After all, it was perhaps from
joy, that the lad wept. He rose from his knees, and was hidden behind
a pillar. I made no endeavor to join him, for I could see that he was
anxious to be alone.
And the next moment, Mathilde Stangerson made her entrance into the
church upon the arm of her father, Robert Darzac walking behind them.
Ah, the drama of the Glandier had been a sorrowful one for these three!
But, strange as it may seem, Mathilde Stangerson appeared only the more
beautiful, for all that she had passed through. True, she was no longer
the beautiful statue, the living marble, the ancient goddess, the cold
Pagan divinity, who, at the official functions at which her father’s
position had forced her to appear, had excited a flutter of admiration
whenever she was seen. It seemed, on the contrary, that fate, in making
her expiate for so many long years an imprudence committed in early
youth, had cast her into the depths of madness and despair, only to
tear away the mask of stone, which hid from sight the tender, delicate
spirit. And it was this spirit which shone forth on her wedding day,
in the sweetest and most charming smile, playing on her curved lips,
hiding in her eyes, filled with pensive happiness, and leaving its
impress on her forehead, polished like ivory, where one might read
the love of all that was beautiful and all that was good.
[Illustration: Rouletabille had hidden himself in the shadow of a
pillar.]
As to her gown, I must acknowledge that I remember nothing at all
about it, and am unable even to say of what color it was. But what
I do remember, is the strange expression which came over her visage
when she looked through the rows of faces in the pews without seeming
to discover the one she sought. In a moment she had regained her
composure, and was mistress of herself once more. She had seen
Rouletabille behind his pillar. She smiled at him and my companions and
I smiled in our turn.
“She has the eyes of a mad woman!”
I turned around quickly to see who had uttered the heartless words. It
was a poor fellow whom Robert Darzac, out of the kindness of his heart,
had made his assistant in the laboratory at the Sorbonne. The man was
named Brignolles, and was a distant cousin of the bridegroom. We knew
of no other relative of M. Darzac whose family came originally from
the Midi. Long ago he had lost both father and mother; he had neither
brother nor sister, and seemed to have broken off all intercourse with
his native province, from which he had brought an eager desire for
success, an exceptional ability to work, a strong intellect, and a
natural need for affection, which had satisfied itself in his relations
with Professor Stangerson and his daughter. He had also as a legacy
from Provence, his native place, a soft voice and slight accent, which
had often brought a smile to the lips of his pupils at the Sorbonne,
who, nevertheless, loved it as they might have loved a strain of music,
which made the necessary dryness of their studies a little less arid.
One beautiful morning, in the preceding spring, and consequently a year
after the occurrences in the yellow room, Robert Darzac had presented
Brignolles to his pupils. The new assistant had come direct from Aix,
where he had been a tutor in the natural sciences, and where he had
committed some fault of discipline which had caused his dismissal. But
he had remembered that he was related to M. Darzac, the famous chemist,
had taken the train to Paris, and had told such a piteous tale to the
fiancé of Mlle. Stangerson, that Darzac, out of pity, had found means
to associate his cousin with him in his work. At that time, the health
of Robert Darzac had been far from flourishing. He was suffering from
the reaction following the strong emotions which had nearly weighed him
down at the Glandier and at the Court of Assizes; but one might have
thought that the recovery, now assured, of Mathilde, and the prospect
of their marriage would have had a happy influence both upon the mental
and physical condition of the professor. We, however, remarked on the
contrary, that from the day that Brignolles came to him--Brignolles,
whose friendship should have been a precious solace, the weakness of
M. Darzac seemed to increase. However, we were obliged to acknowledge
that Brignolles was not to blame for that, for two unfortunate and
unforeseen accidents had occurred in the course of some experiments,
which would have seemed, on the face of them, not at all dangerous.
The first resulted from the unexpected explosion of a Gessler tube,
which might have severely injured M. Darzac, but which only injured
Brignolles, whose hands were badly scarred. The second, which might
have been extremely grave, happened through the explosion of a tiny
lamp against which M. Darzac was leaning. Happily, he was not hurt,
but his eyebrows were scorched, and for some time after his sight was
slightly impaired, and he was unable to stand much sunlight.
Since the Glandier mysteries, I had been in such a state of mind that I
often found myself attaching importance to the most simple happenings.
At the time of the second accident I was present, having come to seek
M. Darzac at the Sorbonne. I myself led our friend to a druggist and
then to a doctor, and I (rather dryly, I own) begged Brignolles, when
he wished to accompany us, to remain at his post. On the way, M. Darzac
asked why I had wounded the poor fellow’s feelings. I told him that I
did not care for Brignolles’ society, for the abstract reason that I
did not like his manners, and for the concrete reason, on this special
occasion, that I believed him to be responsible for the accident. M.
Darzac demanded why I thought so, and I did not know how to answer, and
he began to laugh--a laugh that was quickly silenced, however, when the
doctor told him that he might easily have been made entirely blind, and
that he might consider himself very lucky in having gotten off so well.
My suspicions of Brignolles were, doubtless, ridiculous, and no more
accidents happened. All the same, I was so strongly prejudiced against
the young man that, at the bottom of my heart, I blamed him for the
slow improvement in M. Darzac’s physical condition. At the beginning of
the winter Darzac had such a bad cough that I entreated him to ask for
leave of absence and to take a trip to the Midi--a prayer in which all
his friends joined. The physicians advised San Remo. He went thither,
and a week later he wrote us that he felt much better--that it seemed
to him as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his breast. “I can
breathe here,” he wrote. “When I left Paris, I seemed to be stifling.”
This letter from M. Darzac gave me much food for thought, and I no
longer hesitated to take Rouletabille into my confidence.
He agreed with me that it was a most peculiar coincidence that M.
Darzac was so ill when Brignolles was with him and so much better when
he and his young assistant were separated. The impression that this
was actually the fact was so strong in my mind that I would on no
account have permitted myself to lose sight of Brignolles. No, indeed.
I verily believe that if he had attempted to leave Paris, I should have
followed him. But he made no such attempt. On the contrary, he haunted
the footsteps of M. Stangerson. Under the pretext of asking news of M.
Darzac, he presented himself at the house of the Professor almost every
day. Once he made an effort to see Mlle. Stangerson, but I had painted
his portrait to M. Darzac’s fiancée in such unflattering terms, that I
had succeeded in disgusting her with him completely--a fact on which I
congratulated myself in my innermost soul.
M. Darzac remained four months at San Remo, and returned home at the
end of that time almost completely restored to health. His eyes,
however, were still weak, and he was under the necessity of taking the
greatest care of them. Rouletabille and myself had resolved to keep a
close watch on Brignolles, but we were satisfied that everything would
be right when we were informed that the long-deferred marriage was to
occur almost immediately and that M. Darzac would take his wife away
on a long honeymoon trip far from Paris--and from Brignolles.
Upon his return from San Remo, M. Darzac had asked me:
“Well, how are you getting on with poor Brignolles? Have you decided
that you were wrong about him?”
“Indeed, I have not,” was my response.
And Darzac turned away, laughing at me, and uttering one of the
Provencal jests which he affected when circumstances allowed him to be
gay, and which found on his lips a new freshness since his visit to the
Midi had accustomed him again to the accents of his childhood.
We knew that he was happy. But we had formed no real idea of how happy
he was--for between the time of his return and the wedding day we had
had few chances to see him--until we beheld him walking up the aisle of
the church, his face fairly transformed. His slight erect figure bore
itself as proudly as though he were an Emperor. Happiness had made him
another being.
“Anyone could guess that he was a bridegroom!” tittered Brignolles.
I left the neighborhood of the man who was so repulsive to me, and
stepped behind poor M. Stangerson, who stood through the entire
ceremony with his arms crossed on his breast, seeing nothing and
hearing nothing. I was obliged to touch him on the shoulder when all
was over to arouse him from his dream.
As they passed into the sacristy, M. Andre Hesse heaved a deep sigh.
“I can breathe again,” he murmured.
“Why couldn’t you breathe before, my friend?” asked M. Henri-Robert.
And M. Andre Hesse confessed that he had feared up to the last moment
that the dead man would reappear.
“I can’t help it,” was the only response he would make when his friend
rallied him. “I cannot bring myself to the idea that Frederic Larsan
will stay dead for good.”
And now we all--a dozen or so persons--were gathered in the sacristy.
The witnesses signed the register, and the rest of us congratulated the
newly wedded pair. The sacristy was yet more dismal than the church,
and I might have thought that it was on account of the darkness that
I could not perceive Joseph Rouletabille, if the room had not been so
small. But, assuredly, he was not there. Mathilde had already asked for
him twice, and M. Darzac requested me to go and look for him. I did so,
but returned to the vestry without him. He had disappeared from the
church.
“How strange it is!” exclaimed M. Darzac. “I can’t understand it. Are
you sure that you looked everywhere? He may be in some corner dreaming.”
“I looked everywhere, and I called his name,” I told him.
But M. Darzac was still not satisfied. He wanted to look through the
church for himself. His search was better rewarded than mine, for he
learned from a beggar, who was sitting in the porch with a tambourine,
that Rouletabille had left the church a few minutes before and had been
driven away in a hack. When the bridegroom brought this news to his
wife, she appeared to be both pained and anxious. She called me to her
side and said:
“My dear M. Sainclair, you know that we are to take the train in two
hours. Will you hunt up our little friend and bring him to me, and
tell him that his strange behaviour is grieving me very much?”
“Count upon me,” I said.
And I began a wild goose chase after Rouletabille. But I appeared at
the station without him. Neither at his home, nor at the office of
his paper, nor at the Cafe du Barreau, where the necessities of his
work often called him at this hour of the day, could I lay my hand on
him. None of his comrades could tell me where I might chance to find
him. I leave you to think how unwillingly I turned my steps in the
direction of the railroad station. M. Darzac was greatly disturbed,
but as he had to look after the comfort of his fellow travellers (for
Professor Stangerson, who was on his way to Mentone, was to accompany
his daughter and her husband to Dijon, changing cars there, while the
Darzacs continued their trip to Culoz and Mt. Cenis), he asked me to
break the bad news to his bride. I performed the commission, adding
that Rouletabille would, without doubt, present himself before the
train started. At these words, Mathilde began to cry softly, and shook
her head:
“No--no!” she whispered. “It is all over. He will never come again.”
And she stepped into the railway carriage.
It was at this point that the insufferable Brignolles, seeing the
emotion of the newly-made bride, whispered again to M. Andre Hesse,
“Look! Look! Hasn’t she the eyes of a maniac? Ah, Robert has done
wrong. It would have been better for him to wait.” M. Hesse gave him a
disdainful glance, and bade him be silent.
I can still see Brignolles as he spoke those words, and can recall
as vividly as though it were yesterday the feeling of horror with
which he inspired me. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that
he was an evil and a jealous man, and that he would never forgive his
relative for having placed him in a position which might be considered
subordinate. He had a yellow face and long features that looked as if
they had been drawn down from forehead to chin. Everything about him
seemed to diffuse bitterness and everything about him was long. He had
a long figure, long arms, long legs and a long head. However, to this
general rule of length, there were exceptions--the feet and the hands.
He had extremities small and almost beautiful.
After having been so rudely silenced for his malicious words by the
young lawyer, Brignolles immediately took offense and left the station,
after having paid his respects to the bride and bridegroom. At least, I
believe that he left the station, for I did not see him again.
There was three minutes yet before the departure of the train. We
still hoped that Rouletabille would appear, and we looked across the
quay, thinking once or twice that we saw the form of our young friend
approaching, among the hurrying throng of travellers. How could it be
that he would not advance, as we were so used to seeing him, in his
quick, boyish fashion, rushing through the crowd, paying no heed to
the cries and protestations that his method of pushing his way usually
evoked while he seemed to be hurrying faster than any one else? What
could he be doing that detained him?
Already the doors were closed. The bell on the engine began to sound
its first slow strokes, and the calls of hack drivers began to arise:
“Carriage, Monsieur? Carriage?” And then the quick last word which
gave the signal for the departure. But no Rouletabille. We were all
so grieved, and, moreover, so surprised, that we remained on the
platform, looking at Mme. Darzac, without thinking to wish her a
pleasant journey. Professor Stangerson’s daughter cast a long glance
upon the quay, and, at the moment that the speed of the train began to
accelerate, certain now that she was not to see her “little friend”
again, she threw me an envelope from the car window.
“For him,” she said.
And almost as though moved by an irresistible impulse, her face wearing
an expression of something that resembled terror, she added in a tone
so strange that I could not help recalling the horrible speeches of
Brignolles:
“Au revoir, my friends--or adieu.”