IN WHICH THERE IS QUESTION OF THE CHANGING HUMORS OF JOSEPH ROULETABILLE
In returning alone from the station I could not help feeling some
surprise at the singular sensation of sadness which oppressed me,
and of the cause of which I had not the least idea. Since the affair
at Versailles, with the details of which my existence had become
so strangely intermingled, I had enjoyed the closest intimacy with
Professor Stangerson, his daughter, and Robert Darzac. I ought to have
been completely happy on the day of this wedding, which seemed in
every way so satisfactory. I wondered whether the unexplained absence
of the young reporter did not account in some measure for my strange
depression. Rouletabille had been treated by the Stangersons and by M.
Darzac as their deliverer. And especially since Mathilde had left the
sanitarium, in which, for several months, her shattered nervous system
had needed and received the most assiduous care--since the daughter
of the famous professor had been able to understand the extraordinary
part which the boy had played in the drama that, without his help,
would inevitably have ended in the bitterest grief for all those whom
she loved--since she had read by the light of her restored reason
the short-hand reports of the trial, at which Rouletabille appeared
at the last moment like some hero of a miracle--she had surrounded
the youngster with an affection little less than maternal. She
interested herself in everything which concerned him; she begged for
his confidence; she wanted to know more about him than I knew, and,
perhaps, more even than he knew himself. She had shown an unobtrusive
but strong curiosity in regard to the mystery of his birth, of which
all of us were ignorant, and on which the young man had kept silence
with a sort of savage pride. Although he fully realized the tender
friendship which the poor soul felt for him, Rouletabille maintained
his reserve and in his dealings with her affected a formal politeness
which astonished me, coming from the boy whom I had known so exuberant,
so whole-hearted, so strong in his likes and dislikes. More than once I
had mentioned the matter to him, and he had answered me in an evasive
manner, laying great stress, however, upon his sentiments of devotion
for “a lady whom he esteemed beyond anyone in the world, and for whom
he would have been ready to sacrifice his all, if fate or fortune had
given him anything to sacrifice for anyone.” He would take strange
whims at such times. For instance, after having made, in my presence,
a promise to take a holiday and remain all day with the Stangersons,
who had rented for the summer (for they did not wish to live at the
Glandier again) a pretty little place at Chennevieres, on the borders
of the Marne, and after having shown an almost childish joy at the
prospect, he suddenly and without any reason refused to accompany me.
And I was obliged to set out alone, leaving him in his little room, in
the corner of the Boulevard St. Michel and the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.
I wished as I departed that he might experience as much pain as I knew
that he would cause Mlle. Stangerson. One Sunday, she, vexed at the
lad’s behavior, made up her mind to go with me to his den in the Latin
Quarter, and surprise him.
When we reached his lodgings, Rouletabille, who had answered our knock
with an energetic “Come in,” sat working at a little table. He arose as
we entered, and turned so pale that we believed that he was about to
fall in a faint.
“Good heavens!” cried Mlle. Stangerson, hastening toward him. But he
was quicker than she, and before she reached the table on which he
leaned, he had thrown a cover over the papers which were spread over
the surface, hiding them entirely.
Mathilde had, of course, noticed the action. She paused in amazement.
“We are disturbing you,” she said.
“Oh, not at all,” replied Rouletabille. “I have finished my work. I
will show it to you sometime. It is a masterpiece--a piece in five
acts, for which I am not able to find the denouement.”
And he smiled. Soon he was again entirely master of himself, and made
us a hundred droll speeches, thanking us for having come to cheer him
in his solitude. He insisted on inviting us to dinner, and we three ate
our evening meal in a Latin Quarter restaurant--Foyot’s. It was a happy
evening. Rouletabille telephoned for Robert Darzac, who joined us at
dessert. At this time M. Darzac was not ill, and the amazing Brignolles
had not yet made his appearance in Paris. We played like children. That
summer night was so beautiful in the solitude of the Luxembourg!
Before bidding adieu to Mlle. Stangerson, Rouletabille begged her
pardon for the strange humor which he evinced at times, and accused
himself of being at bottom a very disagreeable person. Mathilde kissed
him and Robert Darzac put his arm affectionately around the lad’s
shoulders. And Rouletabille was so moved that he never uttered a word
while I walked with him to his door; but at the moment of our parting,
he pressed my hand more tenderly than he had ever done before. Poor
little fellow! Ah, if I had known! How I reproach myself in the light
of the present for having judged him with too little patience!
Thus, sad at heart, assailed by premonitions which I tried in vain to
drive away, I returned from the railway station at Lyons, pondering
over the numerous fantasies, the strange caprices of Rouletabille
during the last two years. But nothing that entered my mind could have
warned me of what had happened, or still less have explained it to
me. Where was Rouletabille? I went to his rooms in the Boulevard St.
Michel, telling myself that if I did not find him there, I could, at
least, leave Mme. Darzac’s letter. What was my astonishment when I
entered the building to see my own servant carrying my bag. I asked him
to tell me what he was doing and why, and he replied that he did not
know--that I must ask M. Rouletabille.
The boy had been, as it turned out, while I had been seeking him
everywhere (except, naturally, in my own house), in my apartments in
the Rue de Rivoli. He had ordered my servant to take him to my rooms,
and had made the man fill a valise with everything necessary for a trip
of three or four days. Then he had directed the man to bring the bag in
about an hour to the hotel in the “Boul’ Mich.”
I made one bound up the stairs to my friend’s bed chamber, where I
found him packing in a tiny hand satchel an assortment of toilet
articles, a change of linen and a night shirt. Until this task was
ended, I could obtain no satisfaction from Rouletabille, for in regard
to the little affairs of everyday life, he was extremely particular,
and, despite the modesty of his means, succeeded in living very
well, having a horror of everything which could be called bohemian.
He finally deigned to announce to me that “we were going to take
our Easter vacation,” and that, since I had nothing to do, and the
_Epoch_ had granted him a three days’ holiday, we couldn’t do
better than to go and take a short rest at the seaside. I made no
reply, so angry was I at this high-handed method, and all the more
because I had not the least desire to contemplate the beauties of the
ocean upon one of the abominable days of early spring, which for two
or three weeks every year makes us regret the winter. But my silence
did not disturb Rouletabille in the least, and taking my valise in
one hand, his satchel in the other, he hustled me down the stairs and
pushed me into a hack which awaited us before the door of the hotel.
Half an hour later, we found ourselves in a first-class carriage of the
Northern Railway, which was carrying us toward Trepot by way of Amiens.
As we entered the station, he said:
“Why don’t you give me the letter that you have for me?”
I gazed at him in amazement. He had guessed that Mme. Darzac would be
greatly grieved at not seeing him before her departure, and would write
to him. He had been positively malicious. I answered:
“Because you don’t deserve it.”
And I gave him a good scolding, to which he interposed no defense. He
did not even try to excuse himself, and that made me angrier than
ever. Finally, I handed him the letter. He took it, looked at it and
inhaled its fragrance. As I sat looking at him curiously, he frowned,
trying, as I could see, to repress some strong feeling. But he could
no longer hide it from me when he turned toward the window, his
forehead against the glass, and became absorbed in a deep study of the
landscape. His face betrayed the fact that he was suffering profoundly.
“Well?” I said. “Aren’t you going to read the letter?”
“No,” he replied. “Not here. When we are yonder.”
We arrived at Trepot in the blackest night that I remember, after six
hours of an interminable trip and in wretched weather. The wind from
the sea chilled us to the bone and swept over the deserted quay with
weird sounds of lamentation. We met only a watch-man, wrapped in his
cloak and hood, who paced the banks of the canal. Not a cab, of course.
A few gas jets, trembling in their glass globes, reflected their light
in the mud puddles formed by the falling rain. We heard in the distance
the clicking noise of the little wooden shoes of some Trepot woman who
was out late. That we did not fall into a huge watering trough was due
to the fact that we were warned by the hoofs of a stray horse, which
passed that way to drink. I walked behind Rouletabille, who made his
way with difficulty in this damp obscurity. However, he appeared to
know the place, for we finally arrived at the door of a queer little
inn, which remained open during the early spring for the fishermen.
Rouletabille demanded supper and a fire, for we were half starved and
half frozen.
“Ah, now, my friend,” I said, when we were settled after a fashion.
“Will you condescend to explain to me what we have come to look for in
this place, aside from rheumatism and pneumonia?”
But Rouletabille, at this moment, coughed and turned toward the fire to
warm his hands again.
“Oh, yes,” he answered. “I am going to tell you. We have come to look
for the perfume of the Lady in Black.”
This phrase gave me so much to think about that I scarcely slept at all
that night. Besides, the wind howled continuously, sending its wails
over the water, then swallowing itself up in the little streets of the
town as if it were entering corridors. I heard someone moving about
in the room next to mine, which was occupied by my friend; I arose
and tried his door. In spite of the cold and the wind, he had opened
the window, and I could see him distinctly waving kisses toward the
shadows. He was embracing the night.
I closed the door again and went quietly back to bed. Early in the
morning I was awakened by a changed Rouletabille. His face was
distorted with grief as he handed me a telegram which had come to him
at the Bourg, having been forwarded from Paris, in accordance with the
orders that he had left.
Here is the dispatch:
“Come immediately without losing a minute. We have given up our trip
to the Orient, and will join M. Stangerson at Mentone, at the home of
the Rances at Rochers Rouges. Let this message remain a secret between
us. It is not necessary to frighten anyone. You may pretend that you
are on your vacation, or make any other excuse that you like, but come.
Telegraph me general delivery, Mentone. Quickly, quickly, I am waiting
for you. Yours in despair--Darzac.”