An Act of Mademoiselle Stangerson
“You remember me, Monsieur?” asked Rouletabille.
“Perfectly!” replied Arthur Rance. “I recognise you as the lad at the
bar. [The face of Rouletabille crimsoned at being called a ‘lad.’] I
want to shake hands with you. You are a bright little fellow.”
The American extended his hand and Rouletabille, relaxing his frown,
shook it and introduced Mr. Arthur Rance to me. He invited him to share
our meal.
“No thanks. I breakfasted with Monsieur Stangerson.”
Arthur Rance spoke French perfectly,—almost without an accent.
“I did not expect to have the pleasure of seeing you again, Monsieur. I
thought you were to have left France the day after the reception at the
Élysée.”
Rouletabille and I, outwardly indifferent, listened most intently for
every word the American would say.
The man’s purplish red face, his heavy eyelids, the nervous twitchings,
all spoke of his addiction to drink. How come it that so sorry a
specimen of a man should be so intimate with Monsieur Stangerson?
Some days later, I learned from Frédéric Larsan—who, like ourselves,
was surprised and mystified by his appearance and reception at the
château—that Mr. Rance had been an inebriate for about fifteen
years only; that is to say, since the professor and his daughter
left Philadelphia. During the time the Stangersons lived in America
they were very intimate with Arthur Rance, who was one of the most
distinguished phrenologists of the new world. Owing to new experiments,
he had made enormous strides beyond the science of Gall and Lavater.
The friendliness with which he was received at the Glandier may be
explained by the fact that he had rendered Mademoiselle Stangerson
a great service by stopping, at the peril of his own life, the
runaway horses of her carriage. The immediate result of that could,
however, have been no more than a mere friendly association with the
Stangersons; certainly, not a love affair.
Frédéric Larsan did not tell me where he had picked up this
information; but he appeared to be quite sure of what he said.
Had we known these facts at the time Arthur Rance met us at the Donjon
Inn, his presence at the château might not have puzzled us, but they
could not have failed to increase our interest in the man himself. The
American must have been at least forty-five years old. He spoke in a
perfectly natural tone in reply to Rouletabille’s question.
“I put off my return to America when I heard of the attack on
Mademoiselle Stangerson. I wanted to be certain the lady had not been
killed, and I shall not go away until she is perfectly recovered.”
Arthur Rance then took the lead in talk, paying no heed to some of
Rouletabille’s questions. He gave us, without our inviting him, his
personal views on the subject of the tragedy,—views which, as well as
I could make out, were not far from those held by Frédéric Larsan.
The American also thought that Robert Darzac had something to do with
the matter. He did not mention him by name, but there was no room to
doubt whom he meant. He told us he was aware of the efforts young
Rouletabille was making to unravel the tangled skein of The Yellow
Room mystery. He explained that Monsieur Stangerson had related to him
all that had taken place in the inexplicable gallery. He several times
expressed his regret at Monsieur Darzac’s absence from the château on
all these occasions, and thought that Monsieur Darzac had done cleverly
in allying himself with Monsieur Joseph Rouletabille, who could not
fail, sooner or later, to discover the murderer. He spoke the last
sentence with unconcealed irony. Then he rose, bowed to us, and left
the inn.
Rouletabille watched him through the window.
“An odd fish, that!” he said.
“Do you think he’ll pass the night at the Glandier?” I asked.
To my amazement the young reporter answered that it was a matter of
entire indifference to him whether he did or not.
As to how we spent our time during the afternoon, all I need say is
that Rouletabille led me to the grotto of Sainte-Geneviève, and, all
the time, talked of every subject but the one with which we were most
interested. Towards evening I was surprised to find Rouletabille making
none of the preparations I had expected him to make. I spoke to him
about it when night had come on, and we were once more in his room. He
replied that all his arrangements had already been made, and this time
the murderer would not get away from him.
I expressed some doubt on this, reminding him of his disappearance in
the gallery, and suggested that the same phenomenon might occur again.
He answered that he hoped it would. He desired nothing more. I did not
insist, knowing by experience how useless that would have been. He told
me that, with the help of the concierges, the château had since early
dawn, been watched in such a way that nobody could approach it without
his knowing it, and that he had no concern for those who might have
left it and remained without.
It was then six o’clock by his watch. Rising, he made a sign to me to
follow him, and, without in the least trying to conceal his movements
or the sound of his footsteps, he led me through the gallery. We
reached the “right” gallery and came to the landing-place which we
crossed. We then continued our way in the gallery of the left wing,
passing Professor Stangerson’s apartment.
At the far end of the gallery, before coming to the donjon, is the room
occupied by Arthur Rance. We knew that, because we had seen him at the
window looking on to the court. The door of the room opens on to the
end of the gallery, exactly facing the east window, at the extremity of
the “right” gallery, where Rouletabille had placed Daddy Jacques, and
commands an uninterrupted view of the gallery from end to end of the
château.
“That ‘off-turning’ gallery,” said Rouletabille, “I reserve for myself;
when I tell you you’ll come and take your place here.”
And he made me enter a little dark, triangular closet built in a bend
of the wall, to the left of the door of Arthur Rance’s room. From
this recess I could see all that occurred in the gallery as well as
if I had been standing in front of Arthur Rance’s door, and I could
watch that door, too. The door of the closet, which was to be my place
of observation, was fitted with panels of transparent glass. In the
gallery, where all the lamps had been lit, it was quite light. In the
closet, however, it was quite dark. It was a splendid place from which
to observe and remain unobserved.
I was soon to play the part of a spy—a common policeman. I wonder
what my leader at the bar would have said had he known! I was not
altogether pleased with my duties, but I could not refuse Rouletabille
the assistance he had begged me to give him. I took care not to make
him see that I in the least objected, and for several reasons. I wanted
to oblige him; I did not wish him to think me a coward; I was filled
with curiosity; and it was too late for me to draw back, even had I
determined to do so. That I had not had these scruples sooner was
because my curiosity had quite got the better of me. I might also urge
that I was helping to save the life of a woman, and even a lawyer may
do that conscientiously.
We returned along the gallery. On reaching the door of Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s apartment, it opened from a push given by the steward who
was waiting at the dinner-table. (Monsieur Stangerson had, for the
last three days, dined with his daughter in the drawing-room on the
first floor.) As the door remained open, we distinctly saw Mademoiselle
Stangerson, taking advantage of the steward’s absence, and while her
father was stooping to pick up something he had let fall, pour the
contents of a phial into Monsieur Stangerson’s glass.