Chapter XIX

Rouletabille Invites Me to Breakfast at the Donjon Inn

It was not until later that Rouletabille sent me the Note-Book in

which he had written at length the story of the phenomenon of the

inexplicable gallery. On the day I arrived at the Glandier and joined

him in his room, he recounted to me, with the greatest detail, all that

I have now related, telling me also how he had spent several hours in

Paris where he had learned nothing that could be of any help to him.

The event of the inexplicable gallery had occurred on the night between

the 29th and 30th of October, that is to say, three days before my

return to the château. It was on the 2nd of November, then, that I

went back to the Glandier, summoned there by my friend’s telegram, and

taking the revolvers with me.

I am now in Rouletabille’s room and he has finished his recital.

While he had been telling me the story I noticed him continually

rubbing the glass of the eye-glasses he had found on the side table.

From the evident pleasure he was taking in handling them I felt they

must be one of those _sensible_ evidences destined to enter, what he

had called, the circle of the right end of his reason. That strange and

unique way of his, to express himself in terms wonderfully adequate for

his thought, no longer surprised me. It was often necessary to know

his thought to understand the terms he used; and it was not easy to

penetrate into Rouletabille’s thinking.

This lad’s brain was one of the most curious things I have ever

observed. Rouletabille went on the even tenor of his way without

suspecting the astonishment and even bewilderment he roused in others.

I am sure he was not himself in the least conscious of the originality

of his genius. He was himself and at ease wherever he happened to be.

When he had finished his recital he asked me what I thought of it. I

replied that I was much puzzled by his question. Then he begged me to

try, in my turn, to take my reason in hand “by the right end.”

“Very well,” I said. “It seems to me that the point of departure of

my reason would be this—there can be no doubt that the murderer you

pursued was in the gallery.” I paused.

“After making so good a start, you ought not to stop so soon,” he

exclaimed. “Come, make another effort.”

“I’ll try. Since he disappeared from the gallery without passing

through any door or window, he must have escaped by some other opening.”

Rouletabille looked at me pityingly, smiled carelessly, and remarked

that I was reasoning like a postman, or—like Frédéric Larsan.

Rouletabille had alternate fits of admiration and disdain for the great

Fred. It all depended as to whether Larsan’s discoveries tallied with

Rouletabille’s reasoning or not. When they did he would exclaim: “He is

really great!” When they did not he would grunt and mutter, “What an

ass!” It was a petty side of the noble character of this strange youth.

We had risen, and he led me into the park. When we reached the court

and were making towards the gate, the sound of blinds thrown back

against the wall made us turn our heads, and we saw, at a window on the

first floor of the château, the ruddy and clean shaven face of a person

I did not recognise.

“Hullo!” muttered Rouletabille. “Arthur Rance!”—He lowered his head,

quickened his pace, and I heard him ask himself between his teeth: “Was

he in the château that night? What is he doing here?”

We had gone some distance from the château when I asked him who this

Arthur Rance was, and how he had come to know him. He referred to his

story of that morning and I remembered that Mr. Arthur W. Rance was the

American from Philadelphia with whom he had had so many drinks at the

Élysée reception.

“But was he not to have left France almost immediately?” I asked.

“No doubt; that’s why I am surprised to find him here still, and not

only in France, but above all, at the Glandier. He did not arrive this

morning; and he did not get here last night. He must have got here

before dinner, then. Why didn’t the concierges tell me?”

I reminded my friend, apropos of the concierges, that he had not yet

told me what had led him to get them set at liberty.

We were close to their lodge. Monsieur and Madame Bernier saw us

coming. A frank smile lit up their happy faces. They seemed to harbour

no ill-feeling because of their detention. My young friend asked them

at what hour Mr. Arthur Rance had arrived. They answered that they did

not know he was at the château. He must have come during the evening

of the previous night, but they had not had to open the gate for him,

because, being a great walker, and not wishing that a carriage should

be sent to meet him, he was accustomed to get off at the little hamlet

of Saint-Michel, from which he came to the château by way of the

forest. He reached the park by the grotto of Sainte-Geneviève, over the

little gate of which, giving on to the park, he climbed.

As the concierges spoke, I saw Rouletabille’s face cloud over and

exhibit disappointment—a disappointment, no doubt, with himself.

Evidently he was a little vexed, after having worked so much on the

spot, with so minute a study of the people and events at the Glandier,

that he had to learn now that Arthur Rance was accustomed to visit the

château.

“You say that Monsieur Arthur Rance is accustomed to come to the

château. When did he come here last?”

“We can’t tell you exactly,” replied Madame Bernier—that was the name

of the concierge—“we couldn’t know while they were keeping us in

prison. Besides, as the gentleman comes to the château without passing

through our gate he goes away by the way he comes.”

“Do you know when he came the _first_ time?”

“Oh yes, Monsieur!—nine years ago.”

“He was in France nine years ago, then,” said Rouletabille, “and,

since that time, as far as you know, how many times has he been at the

Glandier?”

“Three times.”

“When did he come the last time, as far as you know?”

“A week before the attempt in The Yellow Room.”

Rouletabille put another question—this time addressing himself

particularly to the woman:—

“In the grove of the parquet?”

“In the grove of the parquet,” she replied.

“Thanks!” said Rouletabille. “Be ready for me this evening.”

He spoke the last words with a finger on his lips as if to command

silence and discretion.

We left the park and took the way to the Donjon Inn.

“Do you often eat here?”

“Sometimes.”

“But you also take your meals at the château?”

“Yes, Larsan and I are sometimes served in one of our rooms.”

“Hasn’t Monsieur Stangerson ever invited you to his own table?”

“Never.”

“Does your presence at the château displease him?”

“I don’t know; but, in any case, he does not make us feel that we are

in his way.”

“Doesn’t he question you?”

“Never. He is in the same state of mind as he was in at the door of The

Yellow Room when his daughter was being murdered, and when he broke

open the door and did not find the murderer. He is persuaded, since he

could discover nothing, that there’s no reason why we should be able to

discover more than he did. But he has made it his duty, since Larsan

expressed his theory, not to oppose us.”

Rouletabille buried himself in thought again for some time. He aroused

himself later to tell me of how he came to set the two concierges free.

“I went lately to see Monsieur Stangerson, and took with me a piece of

paper on which was written: ‘I promise, whatever others may say, to

keep in my service my two faithful servants, Bernier and his wife.’ I

explained to him that, by signing that document, he would enable me to

compel those two people to speak out; and I declared my own assurance

of their innocence of any part in the crime. That was also his opinion.

The examining magistrate, after it was signed, presented the document

to the Berniers, who then did speak. They said, what I was certain they

would say, as soon as they were sure they would not lose their place.

“They confessed to poaching on Monsieur Stangerson’s estates, and it

was while they were poaching, on the night of the crime, that they

were found not far from the pavilion at the moment when the outrage

was being committed. Some rabbits they caught in that way were sold

by them to the landlord of the Donjon Inn, who served them to his

customers, or sent them to Paris. That was the truth, as I had guessed

from the first. Do you remember what I said, on entering the Donjon

Inn?—‘We shall have to eat red meat—now!’ I had heard the words on the

same morning when we arrived at the park gate. You heard them also,

but you did not attach any importance to them. You recollect, when we

reached the park gate, that we stopped to look at a man who was running

by the side of the wall, looking every minute at his watch. That was

Larsan. Well, behind us the landlord of the Donjon Inn, standing on his

doorstep, said to someone inside: ‘We shall have to eat red meat—now.’

“Why that ‘now’? When you are, as I am, in search of some hidden

secret, you can’t afford to have anything escape you. You’ve got

to know the meaning of everything. We had come into a rather

out-of-the-way part of the country which had been turned topsy-turvey

by a crime, and my reason led me to suspect every phrase that could

bear upon the event of the day. ‘Now,’ I took to mean, ‘since the

outrage.’ In the course of my inquiry, therefore, I sought to find a

relation between that phrase and the tragedy. We went to the Donjon

Inn for breakfast; I repeated the phrase and saw, by the surprise

and trouble on Daddy Mathieu’s face, that I had not exaggerated its

importance, so far as he was concerned.

“I had just learned that the concierges had been arrested. Daddy

Mathieu spoke of them as of dear friends—people for whom one is sorry.

That was a reckless conjunction of ideas, I said to myself. ‘Now,’ that

the concierges are arrested, ‘we shall have to eat red meat.’ No more

concierges, no more game! The hatred expressed by Daddy Mathieu for

Monsieur Stangerson’s forest-keeper—a hatred he pretended was shared

by the concierges—led me easily to think of poaching. Now as all the

evidence showed the concierges had not been in bed at the time of

the tragedy, why were they abroad that night? As participants in the

crime? I was not disposed to think so. I had already arrived at the

conclusion, by steps of which I will tell you later—that the assassin

had had no accomplice, and that the tragedy held a mystery between

Mademoiselle Stangerson and the murderer, a mystery with which the

concierges had nothing to do.

“With that theory in my mind, I searched for proof in their lodge,

which, as you know, I entered. I found there under their bed, some

springs and brass wire. ‘Ah!’ I thought, ‘these things explain why

they were out in the park at night!’ I was not surprised at the dogged

silence they maintained before the examining magistrate, even under

the accusation so grave as that of being accomplices in the crime.

Poaching would save them from the Assize Court, but it would lose them

their places; and, as they were perfectly sure of their innocence of

the crime, they hoped it would soon be established, and then their

poaching might go on as usual. They could always confess later. I,

however, hastened their confession by means of the document Monsieur

Stangerson signed. They gave all the necessary ‘proofs,’ were set at

liberty, and have now a lively gratitude for me. Why did I not get them

released sooner? Because I was not sure that nothing more than poaching

was against them. I wanted to study the ground. As the days went by,

my conviction became more and more certain. The day after the events

of the inexplicable gallery I had need of help I could rely on, so I

resolved to have them released at once.”

That was how Joseph Rouletabille explained himself. Once more I could

not but be astonished at the simplicity of the reasoning which had

brought him to the truth of the matter. Certainly this was no big

thing; but I think, myself, that the young man will, one of these days,

explain with the same simplicity, the fearful tragedy in The Yellow

Room as well as the phenomenon of the inexplicable gallery.

We reached the Donjon Inn and entered it.

This time we did not see the landlord, but were received with a

pleasant smile by the hostess. I have already described the room in

which we found ourselves, and I have given a glimpse of the charming

blonde woman with the gentle eyes who now immediately began to prepare

our breakfast.

“How’s Daddy Mathieu?” asked Rouletabille.

“Not much better—not much better; he is still confined to his bed.”

“His rheumatism still sticks to him, then?”

“Yes. Last night I was again obliged to give him morphine—the only drug

that gives him any relief.”

She spoke in a soft voice. Everything about her expressed gentleness.

She was, indeed, a beautiful woman; somewhat with an air of indolence,

with great eyes seemingly black and blue—amorous eyes. Was she happy

with her crabbed, rheumatic husband? The scene at which we had once

been present did not lead us to believe that she was; yet there was

something in her bearing that was not suggestive of despair. She

disappeared into the kitchen to prepare our repast, leaving on the

table a bottle of excellent cider. Rouletabille filled our earthenware

mugs, loaded his pipe, and quietly explained to me his reason for

asking me to come to the Glandier with revolvers.

“Yes,” he said, contemplatively looking at the clouds of smoke he was

puffing out, “yes, my dear boy, I expect the assassin to-night.”

A brief silence followed, which I took care not to interrupt, and then

he went on:—

“Last night, just as I was going to bed, Monsieur Robert Darzac knocked

at my room. When he came in he confided to me that he was compelled to

go to Paris the next day, that is, this morning. The reason which made

this journey necessary was at once peremptory and mysterious; it was

not possible for him to explain its object to me. ‘I go, and yet,’ he

added, ‘I would give my life not to leave Mademoiselle Stangerson at

this moment.’ He did not try to hide that he believed her to be once

more in danger. ‘It will not greatly astonish me if something happens

to-morrow night,’ he avowed, ‘and yet I must be absent. I cannot be

back at the Glandier before the morning of the day after to-morrow.’

“I asked him to explain himself, and this is all he would tell me.

His anticipation of coming danger had come to him solely from the

coincidence that Mademoiselle Stangerson had been twice attacked, and

both times when he had been absent. On the night of the incident of the

inexplicable gallery he had been obliged to be away from the Glandier.

On the night of the tragedy in The Yellow Room he had also not been

able to be at the Glandier, though this was the first time he had

declared himself on the matter. Now a man so moved who should still go

away must be acting under compulsion—must be obeying a will stronger

than his own. That was how I reasoned, and I told him so. He replied

‘Perhaps.’—I asked him if Mademoiselle Stangerson was compelling him.

He protested that she was not. His determination to go to Paris had

been taken without any conference with Mademoiselle Stangerson.

“To cut the story short, he repeated that his belief in the possibility

of a fresh attack was founded entirely on the extraordinary

coincidence. ‘If anything happens to Mademoiselle Stangerson,’ he said,

‘it would be terrible for both of us. For her, because her life would

be in danger; for me because I could neither defend her from the attack

nor tell of where I had been. I am perfectly aware of the suspicions

cast on me. The examining magistrate and Monsieur Larsan are both on

the point of believing in my guilt. Larsan tracked me the last time I

went to Paris, and I had all the trouble in the world to get rid of

him.’

“‘Why do you not tell me the name of the murderer now, if you know it?’

I cried.

“Monsieur Darzac appeared extremely troubled by my question, and

replied to me in a hesitating tone:—

“‘I?—I know the name of the murderer? Why, how could I know his name?’

“I at once replied: ‘From Mademoiselle Stangerson.’

“He grew so pale that I thought he was about to faint, and I saw that

I had hit the right nail on the head. Mademoiselle and he knew the

name of the murderer! When he recovered himself, he said to me: ‘I am

going to leave you. Since you have been here I have appreciated your

exceptional intelligence and your unequalled ingenuity. But I ask this

service of you. Perhaps I am wrong to fear an attack during the coming

night; but, as I must act with foresight, I count on you to frustrate

any attempt that may be made. Take every step needful to protect

Mademoiselle Stangerson. Keep a most careful watch of her room. Don’t

go to sleep, nor allow yourself one moment of repose. The man we dread

is remarkably cunning—with a cunning that has never been equalled. If

you keep watch his very cunning may save her; because it’s impossible

that he should not know that you are watching; and knowing it, he may

not venture.’

“‘Have you spoken of all this to Monsieur Stangerson?’

“‘No. I do not wish him to ask me, as you just now did, for the name

of the murderer. I tell you all this, Monsieur Rouletabille, because

I have great, very great, confidence in you. I know that _you_ do not

suspect me.’

“The poor man spoke in jerks. He was evidently suffering. I pitied

him, the more because I felt sure that he would rather allow himself

to be killed than tell me who the murderer was. As for Mademoiselle

Stangerson, I felt that she would rather allow herself to be murdered

than denounce the man of The Yellow Room and of the inexplicable

gallery. The man must be dominating her, or both, by some inscrutable

power. They were dreading nothing so much as the chance of Monsieur

Stangerson knowing that his daughter was ‘held’ by her assailant.

I made Monsieur Darzac understand that he had explained himself

sufficiently, and that he might refrain from telling me any more than

he had already told me. I promised him to watch through the night. He

insisted that I should establish an absolutely impassable barrier about

Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chamber, around the boudoir where the nurses

were sleeping, and around the drawing-room where, since the affair of

the inexplicable gallery, Monsieur Stangerson had slept. In short, I

was to put a cordon round the whole apartment.

“From his insistence I gathered that Monsieur Darzac intended not

only to make it impossible for the expected man to reach the chamber

of Mademoiselle Stangerson, but to make that impossibility so visibly

clear that, seeing himself expected, he would at once go away. That

was how I interpreted his final words when we parted: ‘You may mention

_your_ suspicions of the expected attack to Monsieur Stangerson, to

Daddy Jacques, to Frédéric Larsan, and to anybody in the château.’

“The poor fellow left me hardly knowing what he was saying. My silence

and my eyes told him that I had guessed a large part of his secret.

And, indeed, he must have been at his wits’ end, to have come to me at

such a time, and to abandon Mademoiselle Stangerson in spite of his

fixed idea as to the coincidence.

“When he was gone, I began to think that I should have to use even

a greater cunning than his so that if the man should come that

night, he might not for a moment suspect that his coming had been

expected. Certainly! I would allow him to get in far enough, so that,

dead or alive, I might see his face clearly! He must be got rid of.

Mademoiselle Stangerson must be freed from this continual impending

danger.

“Yes, my boy,” said Rouletabille, after placing his pipe on the table,

and emptying his mug of cider, “I must see his face distinctly, so as

to make sure to impress it on that part of my brain where I have drawn

my circle of reasoning.”

The landlady re-appeared at that moment, bringing in the traditional

bacon omelette. Rouletabille chaffed her a little, and she took the

chaff with the most charming good humour.

“She is much jollier when Daddy Mathieu is in bed with his rheumatism,”

Rouletabille said to me.

But I had eyes neither for Rouletabille nor for the landlady’s smiles.

I was entirely absorbed over the last words of my young friend and in

thinking over Monsieur Robert Darzac’s strange behaviour.

When he had finished his omelette and we were again alone, Rouletabille

continued the tale of his confidences.

“When I sent you my telegram this morning,” he said, “I had only

the word of Monsieur Darzac, that ‘perhaps’ the assassin would come

to-night. I can now say that he will _certainly_ come. I expect him.”

“What has made you feel this certainty?”

“I have been sure since half-past ten o’clock this morning that he

would come. I knew that before we saw Arthur Rance at the window in the

court.”

“Ah!” I said, “But, again—what made you so sure? And why since

half-past ten this morning?”

“Because, at half-past ten, I had proof that Mademoiselle Stangerson

was making as many efforts to permit of the murderer’s entrance as

Monsieur Robert Darzac had taken precautions against it.”

“Is that possible!” I cried. “Haven’t you told me that Mademoiselle

Stangerson loves Monsieur Robert Darzac?”

“I told you so because it is the truth.”

“Then do you see nothing strange—”

“Everything in this business is strange, my friend; but take my word

for it, the strangeness you now feel is nothing to the strangeness

that’s to come!”

“It must be admitted, then,” I said, “that Mademoiselle Stangerson and

her murderer are in communication—at any rate in writing?”

“Admit it, my friend, admit it! You don’t risk anything! I told you

about the letter left on her table, on the night of the inexplicable

gallery affair,—the letter that disappeared—into the pocket of

Mademoiselle Stangerson. Why should it not have been a summons to a

meeting? Might he not, as soon as he was sure of Darzac’s absence,

appoint the meeting for the coming night?”

And my friend laughed silently. There are moments when I ask myself if

he is not laughing at _me_.

The door of the inn opened. Rouletabille was on his feet so suddenly

that one might have thought he had received an electric shock.

“Mr. Arthur Rance!” he cried.

Mr. Arthur Rance stood before us calmly bowing.