IN WHICH “OLD BOB” UNEXPECTEDLY ARRIVES
When I heard a knock at my door about eleven o’clock in the morning and
the voice of Mere Bernier told me that Rouletabille wanted me to get
up, I threw my window wide open and looked out in delight. The bay was
of an incomparable beauty, and the sea was so transparent that the rays
of the sun pierced through it as they would have done through a mirror
without quicksilver, so that one could perceive the rocks, the anemones
and the moss in the sea bottom just as if the waters had ceased to
cover them and left them bared to the eye. The harmonious curve of the
bank on the Mentone side enclosed the sea like a flowery frame. The
villas of Garavan, white and rose, looked like fresh flowers which had
blossomed over night. The peninsula of Hercules was a bouquet which
floated upon the waters and perfumed the old stones of the château.
Never had nature appeared to me more sweet, more delightful, more
exquisite, nor, above all, more worthy of being loved. The serene
air, the beautiful shore, the balmy sea, the purple mountains, all
this picture to which my Northern senses were so little accustomed,
evoked in my mind the thought of some tender, caressing human being.
As these thoughts passed through my mind, I noticed a man who was
lashing the sea. Oh! he gave it a box on the ear! I could have wept
if I had been a poet! The miserable wretch appeared to be furiously
angry. I could not understand what had excited his wrath in this
tranquil spot, but he evidently felt that he had some serious cause for
vexation, for he never ceased his blows. He was armed with an enormous
cudgel, and, standing erect in a tiny boat, into which a timid child
might have feared to entrust its weight, he administered to the sea,
with the fiercest splashings, such a castigation as provoked the mute
indignation of some strangers who were standing on the shore. But as
everyone under all circumstances dreads to mix himself in what is none
of his affairs, these persons made no protest. What was it that could
have so deeply excited the savage? Perhaps it might have been the very
calm of the sea which, after having been for a moment disturbed by the
insult of the madman, resumed its peaceful tranquillity.
At this point, I was interrupted by the voice of Rouletabille, who told
me that breakfast was nearly ready. Rouletabille appeared in the garb
of a plasterer, his clothing showing plainly that he had been working
in the fresh mortar. In one hand he held a foot rule and in the other
a file. I asked him whether he had seen the man who was beating the
water, and he told me that it was Tullio who was frightening the fishes
to drive them into his nets. It was for this reason, I realized, that
Tullio had obtained the nickname of the “hangman of the sea.”
Rouletabille went on to tell me that he had asked Tullio that morning
about the stranger whom he had rowed about in his boat the night
before, and whom he had taken all around the peninsula of Hercules.
Tullio had replied that he had no knowledge whatever of whom the man
might be; that he was a crazy sort of fellow whom he had taken in as a
passenger at Mentone, and who had given him five francs to land him at
the point of Rochers Rouges.
I dressed myself quickly and joined Rouletabille, who told me that we
were to have a new guest at luncheon, in the person of “Old Bob.” We
waited for a few moments for him to come to the table, and then, as he
did not appear, we began our repast without him in the flowery frame of
the round terrace of Charles the Bold.
There was served to us a delicious bouillabaisse, smoking hot, which
seemed to have drawn the best of their flavors from fishes of all
species, and was tinted by a little _vino del Paese_, and which,
in the light and brightness of the daytime, contributed as much as all
the precaution of Rouletabille toward making us feel serene and secure.
In truth, we felt not the slightest fear of the dreaded Larsan under
the beautiful sunshine of the brilliant heavens, whatever we may have
felt in the pale gleam of the moon and stars. Ah, how forgetful and
easily impressed human nature is! I am ashamed to say it, but we were
feeling rather proud (I speak for Arthur Rance and myself, and also
for Edith, whose romantic and languid nature was superficial, as such
are likely to be) of the fact that we could smile and speak with scorn
of our nocturnal vigils and of our armed guard upon the boulevards of
the citadel--when Old Bob made his appearance. And--let me say it; let
me say it here--it was not this apparition which could have turned our
thoughts toward anything dark or gloomy. I have rarely seen anything
more droll than Old Bob walking in the blinding sun of the springtime
in the Midi, with a tall hat of black beaver; his black trousers, his
black spectacles, his white hair and his rosy cheeks. Yes, yes, we sat
there and laughed in the tower of Charles the Bold. And Old Bob laughed
with us. For Old Bob was as gay as a child.
* * * * *
What was this old savant doing at the Château of Hercules? Perhaps this
is as good a time as any to explain. How could he have made up his
mind to quit his collections in America and his work and his drawings
and his museum in Philadelphia? For these reasons: The reader will not
have forgotten that M. Arthur Rance was already looked upon in his
own country as the anthropologist of the future at the time when his
unhappy infatuation for Mlle. Stangerson had weaned him away from his
studies and made them almost distasteful to him. After his marriage
to Miss Prescott, who was deeply interested in such matters, he felt
that he could resume with pleasure his researches in the science of
Gall and Lavater. But at the self-same time that they visited the azure
shores in the autumn which preceded the events of this history, there
was much discussion in regard to the new discoveries which M. Abbo had
just made at Rochers Rouges. MM. Julien, Riviere, Girardin, Delesot
had come to the spot to work, and had succeeded in interesting the
Institute and the Minister of Public Instruction in their discoveries.
These discoveries soon created a profound sensation, for they proved
beyond the shadow of a doubt that primeval man had lived in this spot
before the glacial epoch. Without doubt, the proof of the existence of
the man of the quarternary epoch had been found long before; but this
epoch, extending certainly two hundred thousand years into the past,
was interesting in that it fixed the quarternary epoch in the proper
period. Learned men were always digging at Rochers Rouges, and they
came upon surprise after surprise. However, the most beautiful of the
grottoes--the Barma Grande, as they called it in the country-side--had
remained intact, for it was the private property of M. Abbo, who kept
the “Restaurant of the Grotto” not far away on the sea shore. M. Abbo
was determined to dig in his own grotto himself. But now, public report
(for the event had passed the bounds of the scientific world and
interested people generally) said that in the Barma Grande there had
been found extraordinary human bones, skeletons remarkably preserved
by the ferruginous earth, contemporaneous with the mammoths of the
beginning of the quarternary epoch, or even of the end of the tertiary
epoch.
Arthur Rance and his wife hastened to Mentone, and while the husband
passed his days in antiquarian researches, going back two hundred
thousand years, digging up with his own hands the humerus of the Barma
Grande and measuring the skulls of his ancestors, his young wife
seemed to experience an ever renewed pleasure in rambling over the
mediæval ruins of an old fortress which reared its massive silhouette
above a little peninsula, united to Rochers Rouges by a few crumbling
stones. The most romantic legends were attached to this relic of the
old Genoese wars; and it seemed to Edith, pensively leaning from the
highest terrace, in the most beautiful scene in the world, that she
was one of those noble demoiselles of ancient times, whose romantic
adventures she had so dearly loved to read in the pages of her favorite
romances. The castle was for sale and the price was very reasonable.
Arthur Rance purchased it, and by doing so made his wife the happiest
of women. She sent for masons and furnishers, and within three months
she had succeeded in transforming the old fortress into an exquisite
nest of love--an ideal abode for a young person who reveled in “The
Lady of the Lake,” or “The Bride of Lammermoor.”
When Arthur Rance had found himself standing beside the last skeleton
discovered in the Barma Grande, and knew that the _elephus
antiquus_ had come out of the same bed of earth, he was beside
himself with enthusiasm, and his first impulse had been to telegraph
to Old Bob and tell him that it might be that someone had discovered,
a few kilometers from Monte Carlo, the relics which the old savant had
been seeking for so many years in the mountains of Patagonia. But the
telegram never reached its destination, for Old Bob, who had previously
promised to join his nephew and niece after they had been married for
awhile, had already taken the steamer for Europe. Evidently report
had already brought to him the story of the treasures of the Rochers
Rouges. A few days after the cable had been dispatched, he landed at
Marseilles and arrived at Mentone, where he became the companion of
Arthur Rance and his wife in the Château of Hercules, which his very
presence seemed to fill with life and gayety.
The gayety of Old Bob appeared to us a little theatrical, but that
feeling arose without doubt from the effects of our apprehensions of
the evening before. The Old Bob had the soul of a child; he was as much
of a coquette as an old woman (that is to say, that his coquetries
frequently changed their object), and, having once for all adopted a
garb of the most severe--black coat, black waistcoat, black trousers,
white hair and rosy cheeks--there was constantly attached to him the
idea of complete harmony. It was in this professional uniform that Old
Bob had chased the tigers in the pampas and this he wore at the present
time while he dug in the grottoes of Rochers Rouges in his search for
the missing bone of the _elephus antiquus_.
Mrs. Rance presented him to us, and he uttered a few polite phrases,
after which he opened his wide mouth in a great hearty laugh. He was
jubilant, and we were soon to learn the reason why. He had brought back
from his visit to the Museum of Paris the certainty that the skeleton
of the Barma Grande was no more ancient than the one which he had
discovered in his last expedition to Terra del Fuego. All the Institute
was of this opinion, and took for the basis of its reasonings the fact
that the bone of the spine of the _elephus_ which Old Bob had
carried to Paris, and which the owner of the Barma Grande had loaned
him after having declared to him that he had found it in the same bed
of earth as the famous skeleton--that this spinal bone belonged, let
us say, to an _elephus_ of the middle of the quarternary period.
Ah, it would have done your heart good to hear the joyous contempt with
which Old Bob spoke of the middle of the quarternary period. At the
very thought of a spinal bone of the middle of the quarternary period,
he laughed as heartily as though some one had told him the finest joke
in the world. Could it be that in this day and age, a savant, worthy
of being dignified by the name, could find anything to interest him in
a skeleton of the middle of the quarternary period! His own skeleton
(or, to be more exact, that which he had brought from Terra del Fuego)
dated from the commencement of this period, and, in consequence, was
older by two thousand years--you hear? _two thousand years--!_ And
he was sure, because of this shoulder blade having belonged to the cave
bear, the shoulder blade which he had found, he, Old Bob, between the
arms of his own skeleton. (He said “my own skeleton” in his enthusiasm,
making no distinction between the living skeleton which he was carrying
about under his black coat, his black trousers, his white hair and his
rosy cheeks, and the prehistoric skeleton of Terra del Fuego.)
“Therefore, my skeleton dates from the cave. But that of
Baousse-Raousse! Oh, no, no, my children! at furthest from the epoch
of the mammoth, and yet--no--no--from the rhinoceros with the cloven
nostrils. Therefore--One has nothing left to discover, ladies and
gentlemen, in the period of the rhinoceros with the cleft nostrils.--I
swear it, upon the honor of Old Bob. My skeleton comes from the
chelleenne epoch, as you say in France. Well, what are you laughing at?
I am not even sure that the _elephus_ of Rochers Rouges dates from
the Mousterian epoch. And why not from the Silurian epoch--or yet--or
yet--from the Magdalenian epoch? No, no--that’s too much. An _elephus
antiquus_ from the Magdalenian epoch would be an impossibility.
That _elephus_ will drive me mad! Ah, I shall die of joy. Poor
Baousse-Raousse!”
Mme. Edith had the unkindness to interrupt the jubilations of her
uncle by announcing to him that Prince Galitch, who had purchased the
Grotto of Romeo and Juliet at Rochers Rouges, must have made some
sensational discovery, for she had seen him, the very morning of Old
Bob’s departure for Paris, passing by the Fort of Hercules, carrying
under his arm a little box which he had touched as he went by, calling
out to her, “See, Mrs. Rance! I have found a treasure!” She said that
she had asked him what the treasure was, but he had walked on laughing,
with the remark that he would have a surprise for Old Bob on his
return. And later, she had heard that Prince Galitch had declared that
he had discovered “the oldest skull in the history of the human race.”
Mrs. Rance had scarcely pronounced these last words when every vestige
of gayety fled from Old Bob’s face and manner. His eyes shot fire and
his voice was husky with passion as he exclaimed:
“That is a lie--an infernal lie! The oldest skull in the history of the
human race is Old Bob’s skull--do you understand me?--it is Old Bob’s
skull.”
And he shouted out:
“Mattoni! Mattoni! Bring my trunk here at once!”
Almost as soon as the words were spoken, we saw Mattoni crossing the
Court of Charles the Bold with Old Bob’s trunk on his shoulder. He
obeyed the professor to the letter, and carried the trunk through the
room and up to his master. Old Bob took his bunch of keys, got down on
his knees and opened the box. From this receptacle, which contained his
clothing and piles of clean linen, neatly folded, he took a hat box,
and from the hat box he drew out a skull, which he placed in the middle
of the table among our coffee cups.
“The oldest skull in the history of humanity!” he echoed. “Here it is!
It is Old Bob’s skull! Look at it! Oh, I can tell you, Old Bob never
goes anywhere without his skull!”
And he took up the frightful object and began to caress it, his eyes
sparkling and his thick lips parting once more in a broad smile.
If you will represent to yourself that Old Bob knew French only
imperfectly and pronounced it like English or Spanish (he spoke Spanish
like a native), you will see and hear the scene. Rouletabille and I
were unable longer to control ourselves, and nearly split our sides
with laughter--all the more, because Old Bob every few moments would
interrupt himself in the midst of a peal of merriment to demand of us
what was the object of our mirth. His wrath was almost as funny as
his mirth, and even Mme. Darzac could not refrain from laughter, for,
in truth, Old Bob, with his “oldest skull of the human race,” was a
droll sight to see. I must acknowledge, too, that a skull two hundred
thousand years old is not such an unpleasant sight as one might expect
it to be, especially when, like this one, it has all its teeth.
Suddenly Old Bob grew serious. He lifted the skull in his right hand
and placed the forefinger of the left hand upon the forehead of his
ancestor.
“When one looks at the skull from above, one notices very clearly a
pentagonal formation which is due to the notable development of the
parietal bumps and the jutting out of the shell of the occipitals. The
great breadth of the face comes from the exaggerated development of
the zygomatic proportions. While in the head of the troglodytes of the
Baousse-Raousse, what do we find?”
I shall never know what it was that Old Bob found in the head of the
troglodytes, for I did not listen to him, _but I looked at him_.
And I had no further inclination for laughter. Old Bob seemed to
me terrifying, horrible, as false as the Father of Lies, with his
counterfeit gayety and his scientific jargon. My eyes remained fixed
upon him as if they were fascinated. It seemed to me that I could
see his hair move, just as a wig might do. One thought--the thought
of Larsan, which never left me completely, seemed to expand until it
filled my entire brain. I felt as if I must speak it out, when all at
once, I felt an arm locked in mine, and I saw Rouletabille looking at
me with an expression which I did not know how to read.
“What is the matter, Sainclair?” whispered the lad, anxiously.
“My friend,” I returned in a tone as low as his own. “I dare not tell
you; you would make sport of me.”
He drew me away from the table and we walked toward the west boulevard.
After he had looked closely on every side and made sure that no one was
near us, he said:
“No, Sainclair, no: I won’t make sport of you, for you are in the
right in seeing _him_ everywhere around us. If he were not there
a little while ago, he is perhaps there now. Ah, he is stronger than
the stones! He is stronger than anything else in the world. I fear him
less within than without. And I should be very glad if the stones which
I have called to my aid in hindering his entrance shall aid me to hold
him inside. For, Sainclair, _I feel that he is here_!”
I pressed Rouletabille’s hand, for, strange as it may seem, I shared
the same impression--I felt that the eyes of Larsan were upon me--I
could hear him breathe. When and how this sensation had first come over
me, I was unable to say. But it seemed to me that it had come with the
appearance of Old Bob.
I said to Rouletabille, scarcely daring to put into words what was in
my mind:
“Old Bob?”
He did not answer. At the end of a few moments, he said:
“Hold your left hand in your right for five minutes and then ask
yourself: _‘Is it you, Larsan?’ And when you have replied to
yourself, do not feel too sure, for he may, perhaps, have lied to you,
and he may be in your own skin without your knowing it._”
With these words, Rouletabille left me alone in the west boulevard.
It was there that Pere Jacques came to look for me. He brought me a
telegram. Before reading it, I congratulated him on his appearance,
for he showed no trace of the fact that, like all the rest of us, he
had passed a sleepless night; but he informed me that the pleasure he
experienced in seeing his “dear Mlle. Mathilde” happy had made him
ten years younger. Then he tried to obtain from me some information
in regard to the motives for the strange vigil of the night before,
and the reason for the events which had occurred at the château since
Rouletabille’s arrival and for the exceptional precautions which had
been taken to prevent the entrance of any stranger. He added that if
“that monster, Larsan,” were not dead, it would seem as if we dreaded
his return. I told him that this was not the moment for explanations
and reasoning, and that, as he was a worthy man, he ought, like all
other soldiers, to observe the rules without seeking to understand them
or to discuss them. He saluted me with a military gesture and started
off, shaking his head. The old man was evidently puzzled, and it did
not displease me at all that, since he had the watch of the North Gate,
he had thought of Larsan. He also had narrowly escaped being one of
Larsan’s victims; he had not forgotten the fact. It would make him a
better sentinel.
I was not in much of a hurry to open the dispatch which Pere Jacques
had brought me, and in this I was wrong, for as soon as I cast my
eyes over the words which it contained, I realized that it was of the
deepest importance. My friend at Paris, whom I had requested to keep
an eye upon Brignolles, sent me word that the said Brignolles had left
Paris the evening before for the Midi. He had taken the 10:35 train. My
friend informed me that he had reason to believe that Brignolles had
taken a ticket for Nice.
What should Brignolles be doing in Nice? That was the question which I
propounded to myself, and which I have since so often regretted that a
foolish impulse of self-esteem kept me from putting to Rouletabille.
The young reporter had made so much fun of me when I showed him the
first dispatch, which stated that Brignolles had not quitted Paris,
that I resolved to tell him nothing about the one which announced his
departure. Since Brignolles amounted to so little, in his opinion, I
would not bother him with Brignolles. And I kept Brignolles to myself,
all alone and so well, that when, assuming my most indifferent air,
I rejoined Rouletabille in the Court of Charles the Bold, I never
mentioned the subject.
Rouletabille was ready to fasten down with bars of iron the heavy
circularly cut oak board which closed the opening to the “oubliette,”
and he showed me that even if the shaft communicated with the sea, it
would be impossible for anyone to succeed in an attempt to introduce
himself into the château by this means, for the reason that he could
not raise the board and would be driven to give up his plan. His
brow was dripping with perspiration, his arms were bared, his collar
thrown off, a heavy hammer was in his hand. It seemed to me that he was
devoting considerable time and energy to a comparatively simple task,
and, like a fool who does not see beyond the end of his own nose, I
could not refrain from telling him so. How could I have helped guessing
that the boy was voluntarily exerting himself beyond necessity, and
that he was delivering himself up to all sorts of physical fatigue in
order to efface the memory of the grief which filled his poor heart?
But no! I was only able to understand that, half an hour later, when I
came upon him lying beside the ruins of the chapel, murmuring in his
dreams the one word which betrayed the sorrow of his heart--“Mother.”
Rouletabille was dreaming of the Lady in Black! He dreamed, perhaps,
that her arms were around him as in days gone by, when he was a little
fellow and came into the school parlor, flushed and breathless with
running. I waited beside him for a moment, asking myself nervously
if I ought to leave him in there, or whether there was any danger
of anyone’s else passing by and discovering his secret. But, after
having relieved his overcharged heart with that one word, the lad left
nothing more to be heard except his heavy breathing. He was completely
exhausted. I believe that it was the first time that the boy had really
slept since we had come from Paris.
I profited by his slumbers to leave the château without informing
anyone of my intention, and soon, my dispatch in my pocket, I took the
train for Nice. On the way, I chanced to read this item on the first
page of the _Petit Nicois_: “Professor Stangerson has arrived
at Garavan, where he will spend a few weeks with M. Arthur Rance, the
recent purchaser of the Fort of Hercules, who, aided by the beautiful
Mme. Arthur Rance, will dispense the most gracious hospitality to
his friends in this fine old mediæval stronghold. As we go to press,
we learn that Professor Stangerson’s daughter, whose marriage to M.
Robert Darzac has just taken place in Paris, has also arrived at the
Fort of Hercules with her husband, the brilliant young professor of la
Sorbonne. These new guests descend upon us from the North at the time
when strangers usually leave us. How wise they are! There is no more
beautiful springtime in the world than that of the ‘azure shore.’”
At Nice, hidden behind the blinds of a buffet, I awaited the arrival
of the train from Paris, by which Brignolles was due to arrive. And
the next moment I saw him alighting from a car. Ah, how my heart beat,
for I knew that there must be some strange reason for this journey
of which he had not informed M. Darzac beforehand. And I knew that
the trip was a secret one, when I saw that Brignolles was trying to
avoid observation, was bending his head as he hurried along, gliding
rapidly as a pickpocket among the passengers, so that he was soon lost
to sight. But I was behind him. He jumped into a closed hack and I
hastily got into another closed just as tightly. At the Place Massena
he left his carriage and turned toward the Jetee Promenade, where he
took another cab. I still followed him. These manœuvres seemed to me
more and more ambiguous. Finally, Brignolles’ carriage came out upon
the road de la Corniche, and I directed my coachman to take the same
way. The numerous windings of this road, its accentuated curves,
permitted me to see without being seen. I had promised my coachman a
large tip if he helped me to keep in sight of my quarry, and he did his
very best. Finally, we reached the Beaulieu railway station, where I
was astonished to see Brignolles’ carriage stop and the man himself get
out, pay the driver and enter the waiting room. He was going to take
the train. For what purpose? If I should attempt to get into the same
car as he, would he not be certain to see me in this little station
or on the almost deserted platform? But I decided to try it anyway.
If he were to see me, I could get out of the difficulty by feigning
surprise at his presence, and by sticking to him until I was sure of
what he was going to do in this part of the world. But luck was with me
and Brignolles did not see me. He got into a passenger coach which was
bound for the Italian frontier. I realized that all his movements were
bringing him nearer to the Fort of Hercules. I got in the car behind
his and watched from my window all the travellers who got out at every
station.
Brignolles did not get off until we reached Mentone. He certainly had
some reason for reaching there by a different train than the one from
Paris, and at an hour when there was little chance of his seeing any
acquaintances at the station. I saw him alight: he had turned up the
collar of his overcoat and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He cast
a stealthy glance around the quay, and then, as if reassured, mingled
with the other passengers. Once outside the trainshed, he got into a
shabby old stage coach which was standing by the sidewalk. I watched
him from the corner of the waiting room. What was he doing here? And
where was he going in that rackety old vehicle? I inquired of an
employé, who told me that that carriage was the stage to Sospel.
Sospel is a picturesque little city lost between the last counterfores
of the Alps, two hours and a half from Mentone by coach. No railroad
passes through there. It is one of the most retired and quietest
corners of France, the most dreaded by revenue officers and by the
Alpine hunters. But the road which leads to it is one of the most
beautiful in the world, for, in order to reach Sospel, it is necessary
to wind through I do not know how many mountain passes, to climb
countless precipices, and to follow, until one reaches Castillon, the
deep and narrow valley of Carei, as wild as a field in Judæa, but
covered with luxuriant herbage, bright with beautiful flowers, fertile
and beautiful with the shimmering gold of its forests of olive trees,
which descend from the heights to the clear bed of the stream by the
terraces of a giant staircase formed by nature. I had been at Sospel
a few years previously with a party of English tourists in an immense
carriage, drawn by eight horses, and I had brought from the trip a
remembrance of vertigo which came over my mind in the future every time
the name was mentioned. Why was Brignolles going to Sospel? I must
find out. The diligence was crowded and had already started on its way
with a loud noise of creaking springs and of shaking window panes. I
hired a carriage from the station and in a few moments I, too, was
climbing over the rocks to the valley of Carei. How I regretted not
having spoken of my telegram to Rouletabille! The strange behavior of
Brignolles would have given him ideas, useful and reasonable, while,
for my part, I had not the slightest idea of how to reason. I only
knew how to follow this Brignolles as a dog follows his master or a
policeman follows his quarry by the clues which he finds. And yet, had
I followed them well, these clues? It was at the moment that I felt
certain that nothing in the world in regard to this man’s movements
could be small enough to escape me that I made a formidable discovery.
I had let the diligence keep a little way in advance, a precaution
which I deemed necessary, and I reached Castillon ten minutes later
than Brignolles. Castillon is at the highest point of the road between
Mentone and Sospel. My driver asked my permission to let his horse
rest for a moment, and while he watered the beast, I descended from
the carriage, and, at the entrance of a tunnel through which it was
necessary to pass to reach the opposite turn of the mountain, I beheld
Brignolles and Frederic Larsan!
I stood staring at them, my feet as helpless as though they had taken
root in the soil. I could not utter a sound nor make a gesture. Upon my
honor, I was completely stupefied by the revelation. Then I recovered
my wits, and at the same time felt myself overwhelmed by a feeling
of horror for Brignolles, and by a feeling of admiration for my own
intuition in regard to him. Ah, I had known from the start! I had
been the only one to guess that the companionship of this devil of a
Brignolles had been of the gravest danger to Robert Darzac. If they
would have listened to me, the Professor of la Sorbonne would have
gotten rid of the creature’s presence long ago. Brignolles, the tool of
Larsan--the accomplice of Larsan!--what a discovery! Why, I had known
all along that those accidents in the laboratory had not happened by
chance! They would believe me now! I had seen with my own eyes Larsan
and Brignolles, talking and consulting together at the entrance of the
Castillon tunnel. I _had_ seen them--but where were they gone
now? For I saw them no longer. They must be in the tunnel. I hastened
my steps, leaving my coachman behind me, and reached the tunnel in a
few moments, drawing my revolver from my pocket. My state of mind was
beyond description. What would Rouletabille say when I told him all
about my adventure? It was I--I--who had discovered Brignolles and
Larsan.
But where were they? I walked through the dark tunnel--no Larsan, no
Brignolles! I looked down the road which descends toward Sospel. Not a
living creature! But upon my left, toward ancient Castillon, it seemed
to me that I could perceive two forms that hastened. They disappeared.
I ran after them. I arrived at the ruins. I stopped. Who could say that
those two figures were not lying in wait for me behind a wall?
The old Castillon was no longer inhabited, and for a good reason. It
had been entirely ruined--destroyed by the earthquake of 1887. Nothing
of it remained but a few piles of stone and a few mural windows, gently
covered with dust by time; some headless statues, a few isolated
pillars which remained standing upright, spared by the shock, and
leaning sorrowfully toward the earth, melancholy at having nothing
to support. What a silence there was all around me! With a thousand
precautions I searched through the ruins, contemplating with horror
the depth of the crevices which the earthquake of 1887 had opened in
the rocks. One of these in particular seemed to be a shaft without a
bottom, and as I leaned above it, hanging on to an olive tree to keep
from falling in, I was almost swept into the abyss by a gust of wind.
I felt the draught on my face and recoiled with a cry. An eagle darted
out of the abyss, quick as a flash. He rose straight to the sun, and
then I saw him descend toward me, and describe some menacing circles
above my head, uttering savage shrieks, as though he reproached me for
having come to trouble him in his realm of solitude and of death which
the elements had given him.
Had I been the victim of an illusion? I could no longer see my two
shadows. Was I also the plaything of my imagination, when I stooped
and picked up from the road a bit of letter paper which looked to me
singularly like that which M. Robert Darzac used at la Sorbonne?
Upon this bit of paper I deciphered two syllables which I believed
Brignolles had written. These syllables seemed to be the end of a word
the beginning of which was missing. All that it was possible to make
out was “bonnet.”
* * * * *
Two hours later I reëntered the Fort of Hercules and told my story
to Rouletabille, who placed the bit of paper in his portfolio and
entreated me to be as silent as the grave in regard to my expedition.
Astonished at having produced so different an effect from the one which
I had anticipated at a discovery which I believed so important, I
stared at Rouletabille. He turned his head away, but not quickly enough
to hide from me that his eyes were filled with tears.
“Rouletabille!” I exclaimed.
But again, he motioned me not to speak.
“Silence, Sainclair!”
I took his hand; it was burning with fever. And I thought that this
agitation could not come entirely from his apprehensions in regard
to Larsan. I reproached him with concealing from me what had passed
between him and the Lady in Black, but, as often happened, he made me
no answer, and turned away, heaving a deep sigh.
They had waited dinner for me. It was late. The dinner was a dismal
affair, in spite of the gayety of Old Bob. We scarcely attempted to
hide the deep anxiety which froze our hearts. One would have said that
each one of us was resigned to the blow which was threatening and that
we had lost hope that it might be averted. M. and Mme. Darzac ate
nothing. Mme. Edith kept looking at me with a strange expression. At
ten o’clock I went to take up my station at the tower of the gardener,
almost with relief. While I was in the little room where we had
consulted together the night before, the Lady in Black and Rouletabille
passed beneath the arch. The glimmer of the lantern fell on their
faces. Mme. Darzac appeared to me to be in a state of the greatest
excitement. She was urging Rouletabille to something which I could
not hear. The conversation between them looked like an argument and I
caught only one word of Rouletabille, “Thief!”
The two entered the Court of the Bold. The Lady in Black stretched
her arm toward the young man, but he did not see it, for he left her
immediately and went toward his own room. She remained standing alone
for a moment in the court, leaning against the trunk of the eucalyptus
tree in an attitude of unutterable sadness, then, with slow steps, she
entered the Square Tower.
It was now the tenth of April. The attack of the Square Tower occurred
on the night between the eleventh and twelfth.