Chapter I

In Which We Begin not to Understand

It is not without a certain emotion that I begin to recount here the

extraordinary adventures of Joseph Rouletabille. Down to the present

time he had so firmly opposed my doing it that I had come to despair of

ever publishing the most curious of police stories of the past fifteen

years. I had even imagined that the public would never know the whole

truth of the prodigious case known as that of “The Yellow Room,” out

of which grew so many mysterious, cruel, and sensational dramas, with

which my friend was so closely mixed up, if, à propos of a recent

nomination of the illustrious Stangerson to the grade of grand-cross

of the Legion of Honour, an evening journal—in an article, miserable

for its ignorance, or audacious for its perfidy—had not resuscitated a

terrible adventure of which Joseph Rouletabille had told me he wished

to be for ever forgotten.

“The Yellow Room!” Who now remembers this affair which caused so much

ink to flow fifteen years ago? Events are so quickly forgotten in

Paris. Has not the very name of the Nayves trial and the tragic history

of the death of little Menaldo passed out of mind? And yet the public

attention was so deeply interested in the details of the trial that

the occurrence of a ministerial crisis was completely unnoticed at the

time. Now “The Yellow Room” trial, which preceded that of the Nayves

by some years, made far more noise. The entire world hung for months

over this obscure problem—the most obscure, it seems to me, that has

ever challenged the perspicacity of our police or taxed the conscience

of our judges. The solution of the problem baffled everybody who tried

to find it. It was like a dramatic rebus with which old Europe and

new America alike became fascinated. That is, in truth—I am permitted

to say, because there cannot be any author’s vanity in all this,

since I do nothing more than transcribe facts on which an exceptional

documentation enables me to throw a new light—that is because, in

truth, I do not know that, in the domain of reality or imagination, one

can discover or recall to mind anything comparable, in its mystery,

with the natural mystery of “The Yellow Room.”

That which nobody could find out, Joseph Rouletabille, aged eighteen,

then a reporter engaged on a leading journal, succeeded in discovering.

But when, at the Assize Court, he brought in the key to the whole

case, he did not tell the whole truth. He only allowed so much of it

to appear as sufficed to ensure the acquittal of an innocent man. The

reasons which he had for his reticence no longer exist. Better still,

the time has come for my friend to speak out fully. You are going to

know all; and, without further preamble, I am going to place before

your eyes the problem of “The Yellow Room” as it was placed before the

eyes of the entire world on the day following the enactment of the

drama at the Château du Glandier.

On the 25th of October, 1892, the following note appeared in the latest

edition of the “Temps”:—

“A frightful crime has been committed at the Glandier, on the border

of the forest of Sainte-Geneviève, above Epinay-sur-Orge, at the house

of Professor Stangerson. On that night, while the master was working

in his laboratory, an attempt was made to assassinate Mademoiselle

Stangerson, who was sleeping in a chamber adjoining this laboratory.

The doctors do not answer for the life of Mdlle. Stangerson.”

The impression made on Paris by this news may be easily imagined.

Already, at that time, the learned world was deeply interested in the

labours of Professor Stangerson and his daughter. These labours—the

first that were attempted in radiography—served to open the way

for Monsieur and Madame Curie to the discovery of radium. It was

expected the Professor would shortly read to the Academy of Sciences

a sensational paper on his new theory,—the Dissociation of Matter,—a

theory destined to overthrow from its base the whole of official

science, which based itself on the principle of the Conservation of

Energy.

On the following day, the newspapers were full of the tragedy. The

“Matin,” among others, published the following article, entitled: “A

Supernatural Crime”:—

“These are the only details,” wrote the anonymous writer in the

“Matin”—“we have been able to obtain concerning the crime of the

Château du Glandier. The state of despair in which Professor Stangerson

is plunged, and the impossibility of getting any information from the

lips of the victim, have rendered our investigations and those of

justice so difficult that, at present, we cannot form the least idea

of what has passed in ‘The Yellow Room’ in which Mdlle. Stangerson, in

her night-dress, was found lying on the floor in the agonies of death.

We have, at least, been able to interview Daddy Jacques—as he is called

in the country—an old servant in the Stangerson family. Daddy Jacques

entered ‘The Yellow Room’ at the same time as the Professor. This

chamber adjoins the laboratory. Laboratory and Yellow Room are in a

pavilion at the end of the park, about three hundred metres (a thousand

feet) from the château.

“‘It was half-past twelve at night,’ this honest old man told us, ‘and

I was in the laboratory, where Monsieur Stangerson was still working,

when the thing happened. I had been cleaning and putting instruments in

order all the evening and was waiting for Monsieur Stangerson to go to

bed. Mademoiselle Stangerson had worked with her father up to midnight;

when the twelve strokes of midnight had sounded by the cuckoo-clock

in the laboratory, she rose, kissed Monsieur Stangerson and bade him

good-night. To me she said “bon soir, Daddy Jacques” as she passed

into “The Yellow Room.” We heard her lock the door and shoot the bolt,

so that I could not help laughing, and said to Monsieur: “There’s

Mademoiselle double-locking herself in,—she must be afraid of the

‘Bête du bon Dieu!’” Monsieur did not even hear me, he was so deeply

absorbed in what he was doing. Just then we heard the distant miawing

of a cat. “Is that going to keep us awake all night?” I said to myself;

for I must tell you, Monsieur, that, to the end of October, I live in

an attic of the pavilion over The Yellow Room, so that Mademoiselle

should not be left alone through the night in the lonely park. It was

the fancy of Mademoiselle to spend the fine weather in the pavilion; no

doubt, she found it more cheerful than the château and, for the four

years it had been built, she had never failed to take up her lodging

there in the spring. With the return of winter, Mademoiselle returns to

the château, for there is no fireplace in The Yellow Room.

“‘We were staying in the pavilion, then—Monsieur Stangerson and me. We

made no noise. He was seated at his desk. As for me, I was sitting on a

chair, having finished my work and, looking at him, I said to myself:

“What a man!—what intelligence!—what knowledge!” I attach importance

to the fact that we made no noise; for, because of that, the assassin

certainly thought that we had left the place. And, suddenly, while

the cuckoo was sounding the half after midnight, a desperate clamour

broke out in The Yellow Room. It was the voice of Mademoiselle, crying

“Murder!—murder!—help!” Immediately afterwards revolver shots rang out

and there was a great noise of tables and furniture being thrown to

the ground, as if in the course of a struggle, and again the voice of

Mademoiselle calling, “Murder!—help!—Papa!—Papa!—”

“‘You may be sure that we quickly sprang up and that Monsieur

Stangerson and I threw ourselves upon the door. But alas! it was

locked, fast locked, on the inside, by the care of Mademoiselle, as I

have told you, with key and bolt. We tried to force it open, but it

remained firm. Monsieur Stangerson was like a madman, and truly, it

was enough to make him one, for we heard Mademoiselle still calling

“Help!—help!” Monsieur Stangerson showered terrible blows on the door,

and wept with rage and sobbed with despair and helplessness.

“‘It was then that I had an inspiration. “The assassin must have

entered by the window!” I cried;—“I will go to the window!” and I

rushed from the pavilion and ran like one out of his mind.

“‘The inspiration was that the window of The Yellow Room looks out in

such a way that the park wall, which abuts on the pavilion, prevented

my at once reaching the window. To get up to it one has first to go

out of the park. I ran towards the gate and, on my way, met Bernier

and his wife, the gate-keepers, who had been attracted by the pistol

reports and by our cries. In a few words I told them what had happened,

and directed the concierge to join Monsieur Stangerson with all speed,

while his wife came with me to open the park gate. Five minutes later

she and I were before the window of The Yellow Room.

“‘The moon was shining brightly and I saw clearly that no one had

touched the window. Not only were the bars that protect it intact, but

the blinds inside of them were drawn, as I had myself drawn them early

in the evening, as I did every day, though Mademoiselle, knowing that

I was tired from the heavy work I had been doing, had begged me not to

trouble myself, but leave her to do it; and they were just as I had

left them, fastened with an iron catch on the inside. The assassin,

therefore, could not have passed either in or out that way; but neither

could I get in.

“‘It was unfortunate,—enough to turn one’s brain! The door of the room

locked on the inside and the blinds on the only window also fastened on

the inside; and Mademoiselle still calling for help!—No! she had ceased

to call. She was dead, perhaps. But I still heard her father, in the

pavilion, trying to break down the door.

“‘With the concierge I hurried back to the pavilion. The door, in spite

of the furious attempts of Monsieur Stangerson and Bernier to burst it

open, was still holding firm; but at length, it gave way before our

united efforts,—and then what a sight met our eyes! I should tell you

that, behind us, the concierge held the laboratory lamp—a powerful

lamp, that lit the whole chamber.

“‘I must also tell you, monsieur, that The Yellow Room is a very small

room. Mademoiselle had furnished it with a fairly large iron bedstead,

a small table, a night-commode, a dressing-table, and two chairs. By

the light of the big lamp we saw all at a glance. Mademoiselle, in

her night-dress, was lying on the floor in the midst of the greatest

disorder. Tables and chairs had been overthrown, showing that there

had been a violent struggle. Mademoiselle had certainly been dragged

from her bed. She was covered with blood and had terrible marks of

finger-nails on her throat,—the flesh of her neck having been almost

torn by the nails. From a wound on the right temple a stream of blood

had run down and made a little pool on the floor. When Monsieur

Stangerson saw his daughter in that state, he threw himself on his

knees beside her, uttering a cry of despair. He ascertained that she

still breathed. As to us, we searched for the wretch who had tried to

kill our mistress, and I swear to you, monsieur, that, if we had found

him, it would have gone hard with him!

“‘But how to explain that he was not there, that he had already

escaped? It passes all imagination!—Nobody under the bed, nobody behind

the furniture!—All that we discovered were traces, blood-stained marks

of a man’s large hand on the walls and on the door; a big handkerchief

red with blood, without any initials, an old cap, and many fresh

footmarks of a man on the floor,—footmarks of a man with large feet

whose boot-soles had left a sort of sooty impression. How had this man

got away? How had he vanished? Don’t forget, monsieur, that there is

no chimney in The Yellow Room. He could not have escaped by the door,

which is narrow, and on the threshold of which the concierge stood with

the lamp, while her husband and I searched for him in every corner of

the little room, where it is impossible for anyone to hide himself. The

door, which had been forced open against the wall, could not conceal

anything behind it, as we assured ourselves. By the window, still in

every way secured, no flight had been possible. What then?—I began to

believe in the Devil.

“‘But we discovered my revolver on the floor!—Yes, _my_ revolver! Oh!

that brought me back to the reality! The Devil would not have needed to

steal my revolver to kill Mademoiselle. The man who had been there had

first gone up to my attic and taken my revolver from the drawer where

I kept it. We then ascertained, by counting the cartridges, that the

assassin had fired two shots. Ah! it was fortunate for me that Monsieur

Stangerson was in the laboratory when the affair took place and had

seen with his own eyes that I was there with him; for otherwise,

with this business of my revolver, I don’t know where we should have

been,—_I_ should now be under lock and bar. Justice wants no more to

send a man to the scaffold!’”

The editor of the “Matin” added to this interview the following lines:—

“We have, without interrupting him, allowed Daddy Jacques to recount

to us roughly all he knows about the crime of The Yellow Room. We have

reproduced it in his own words, only sparing the reader the continual

lamentations with which he garnished his narrative. It is quite

understood, Daddy Jacques, quite understood, that you are very fond of

your masters; and you want them to know it, and never cease repeating

it—especially since the discovery of your revolver. It is your right,

and we see no harm in it. We should have liked to put some further

questions to Daddy Jacques—Jacques—Louis Moustier—but the inquiry of

the examining magistrate, which is being carried on at the château,

makes it impossible for us to gain admission at the Glandier; and, as

to the oak wood, it is guarded by a wide circle of policemen, who are

jealously watching all traces that can lead to the pavilion, and that

may perhaps lead to the discovery of the assassin.

“We have also wished to question the concierges, but they are

invisible. Finally, we have waited in a roadside inn, not far from the

gate of the château, for the departure of Monsieur de Marquet, the

magistrate of Corbeil. At half-past five we saw him and his clerk and,

before he was able to enter his carriage, had an opportunity to ask him

the following question:—

“‘Can you, Monsieur de Marquet, give us any information as to this

affair, without inconvenience to the course of your inquiry?’

“‘It is impossible for us to do it,’ replied Monsieur de Marquet.

‘I can only say that it is the strangest affair I have ever known.

The more we think we know something, the further we are from knowing

anything!’

“We asked Monsieur de Marquet to be good enough to explain his last

words; and this is what he said,—the importance of which no one will

fail to recognise:—

“‘If nothing is added to the material facts so far established, I

fear that the mystery which surrounds the abominable crime of which

Mademoiselle Stangerson has been the victim will never be brought

to light; but it is to be hoped, for the sake of our human reason,

that the examination of the walls, and of the ceiling of The Yellow

Room—an examination which I shall to-morrow intrust to the builder who

constructed the pavilion four years ago—will afford us the proof that

may not discourage us. For the problem is this: we know by what way the

assassin gained admission,—he entered by the door and hid himself under

the bed, awaiting Mademoiselle Stangerson. But how did he leave? How

did he escape? If no trap, no secret door, no hiding-place, no opening

of any sort is found; if the examination of the walls—even to the

demolition of the pavilion—does not reveal any passage practicable—not

only for a human being, but for any being whatsoever—if the ceiling

shows no crack, if the floor hides no underground passage, one must

really believe in the Devil, as Daddy Jacques says!’”

And the anonymous writer in the “Matin” added in this article—which I

have selected as the most interesting of all those that were published

on the subject of this affair—that the examining magistrate appeared to

place a peculiar significance to the last sentence: “One must really

believe in the Devil, as Jacques says.”

The article concluded with these lines: “We wanted to know what Daddy

Jacques meant by the cry of the Bête du Bon Dieu. The landlord of the

Donjon Inn explained to us that it is the particularly sinister cry

which is uttered sometimes at night by the cat of an old woman,—Mother

Angenoux, as she is called in the country. Mother Angenoux is a sort of

saint, who lives in a hut in the heart of the forest, not far from the

grotto of Sainte-Geneviève.

“The Yellow Room, the Bête du Bon Dieu, Mother Angenoux, the Devil,

Sainte-Geneviève, Daddy Jacques,—here is a well entangled crime which

the stroke of a pickaxe in the wall may disentangle for us to-morrow.

Let us at least hope that, for the sake of our human reason, as the

examining magistrate says. Meanwhile, it is expected that Mademoiselle

Stangerson—who has not ceased to be delirious and only pronounces one

word distinctly, ‘Murderer! Murderer!’—will not live through the night.”

In conclusion, and at a late hour, the same journal announced that the

Chief of the Sûreté had telegraphed to the famous detective, Frédéric

Larsan, who had been sent to London for an affair of stolen securities,

to return immediately to Paris.