duty is to report the event; and I place the event in its frame
--that is all. It is only natural that you should know where the
things happened.
I return to Monsieur Stangerson. When he bought the estate, fifteen
years before the tragedy with which we are engaged occurred, the
Chateau du Glandier had for a long time been unoccupied. Another
old chateau in the neighbourhood, built in the fourteenth century
by Jean de Belmont, was also abandoned, so that that part of the
country was very little inhabited. Some small houses on the side
of the road leading to Corbeil, an inn, called the "Auberge du
Donjon," which offered passing hospitality to waggoners; these
were about all to represent civilisation in this out-of-the-way
part of the country, but a few leagues from the capital.
But this deserted condition of the place had been the determining
reason for the choice made by Monsieur Stangerson and his daughter.
Monsieur Stangerson was already celebrated. He had returned from
America, where his works had made a great stir. The book which he
had published at Philadelphia, on the "Dissociation of Matter by
Electric Action," had aroused opposition throughout the whole
scientific world. Monsieur Stangerson was a Frenchman, but of
American origin. Important matters relating to a legacy had kept
him for several years in the United States, where he had continued
the work begun by him in France, whither he had returned in
possession of a large fortune. This fortune was a great boon to
him; for, though he might have made millions of dollars by
exploiting two or three of his chemical discoveries relative to
new processes of dyeing, it was always repugnant to him to use
for his own private gain the wonderful gift of invention he had
received from nature. He considered he owed it to mankind, and
all that his genius brought into the world went, by this
philosophical view of his duty, into the public lap.
If he did not try to conceal his satisfaction at coming into
possession of this fortune, which enabled him to give himself up to
his passion for pure science, he had equally to rejoice, it seemed
to him, for another cause. Mademoiselle Stangerson was, at the time
when her father returned from America and bought the Glandier estate,
twenty years of age. She was exceedingly pretty, having at once the
Parisian grace of her mother, who had died in giving her birth, and
all the splendour, all the riches of the young American blood of her
parental grandfather, William Stangerson. A citizen of Philadelphia,
William Stangerson had been obliged to become naturalised in
obedience to family exigencies at the time of his marriage with a
French lady, she who was to be the mother of the illustrious
Stangerson. In that way the professor's French nationality is
accounted for.
Twenty years of age, a charming blonde, with blue eyes, milk-white
complexion, and radiant with divine health, Mathilde Stangerson was
one of the most beautiful marriageable girls in either the old or
the new world. It was her father's duty, in spite of the inevitable
pain which a separation from her would cause him, to think of her
marriage; and he was fully prepared for it. Nevertheless, he
buried himself and his child at the Glandier at the moment when his
friends were expecting him to bring her out into society. Some of
them expressed their astonishment, and to their questions he
answered: "It is my daughter's wish. I can refuse her nothing.
She has chosen the Glandier."
Interrogated in her turn, the young girl replied calmly: "Where
could we work better than in this solitude?" For Mademoiselle
Stangerson had already begun to collaborate with her father in his
work. It could not at the time be imagined that her passion for
science would lead her so far as to refuse all the suitors who
presented themselves to her for over fifteen years. So secluded was
the life led by the two, father and daughter, that they showed
themselves only at a few official receptions and, at certain times
in the year, in two or three friendly drawing-rooms, where the fame
of the professor and the beauty of Mathilde made a sensation. The
young girl's extreme reserve did not at first discourage suitors;
but at the end of a few years, they tired of their quest.
One alone persisted with tender tenacity and deserved the name of
"eternal fiance," a name he accepted with melancholy resignation;
that was Monsieur Robert Darzac. Mademoiselle Stangerson was now
no longer young, and it seemed that, having found no reason for
marrying at five-and-thirty, she would never find one. But such an
argument evidently found no acceptance with Monsieur Robert Darzac.
He continued to pay his court--if the delicate and tender attention
with which he ceaselessly surrounded this woman of five-and-thirty
could be called courtship--in face of her declared intention never
to marry.
Suddenly, some weeks before the events with which we are occupied,
a report--to which nobody attached any importance, so incredible
did it sound--was spread about Paris, that Mademoiselle Stangerson
had at last consented to "crown" the inextinguishable flame of
Monsieur Robert Darzac! It needed that Monsieur Robert Darzac
himself should not deny this matrimonial rumour to give it an
appearance of truth, so unlikely did it seem to be well founded.
One day, however, Monsieur Stangerson, as he was leaving the Academy
of Science, announced that the marriage of his daughter and Monsieur
Robert Darzac would be celebrated in the privacy of the Chateau du
Glandier, as soon as he and his daughter had put the finishing
touches to their report summing up their labours on the "Dissociation
of Matter." The new household would install itself in the Glandier,
and the son-in-law would lend his assistance in the work to which
the father and daughter had dedicated their lives.
The scientific world had barely had time to recover from the effect
of this news, when it learned of the attempted assassination of
Mademoiselle under the extraordinary conditions which we have
detailed and which our visit to the chateau was to enable us to
ascertain with yet greater precision. I have not hesitated to
furnish the reader with all these retrospective details, known to
me through my business relations with Monsieur Robert Darzac. On
crossing the threshold of The Yellow Room he was as well posted
as I was.
CHAPTER V
In Which Joseph Rouletabille Makes a Remark to Monsieur Robert
Darzac Which Produces Its Little Effect
Rouletabille and I had been walking for several minutes, by the side
of a long wall bounding the vast property of Monsieur Stangerson and
had already come within sight of the entrance gate, when our
attention was drawn to an individual who, half bent to the ground,
seemed to be so completely absorbed in what he was doing as not to
have seen us coming towards him. At one time he stooped so low as
/> almost to touch the ground; at another he drew himself up and
attentively examined the wall; then he looked into the palm of one
of his hands, and walked away with rapid strides. Finally he set
off running, still looking into the palm of his hand. Rouletabille
had brought me to a standstill by a gesture.
"Hush! Frederic Larsan is at work! Don't let us disturb him!"
Rouletabille had a great admiration for the celebrated detective.
I had never before seen him, but I knew him well by reputation.
At that time, before Rouletabille had given proof of his unique
talent, Larsan was reputed as the most skilful unraveller of the
most mysterious and complicated crimes. His reputation was
world-wide, and the police of London, and even of America, often
called him in to their aid when their own national inspectors and
detectives found themselves at the end of their wits and resources.
No one was astonished, then, that the head of the Surete had, at the
outset of the mystery of The Yellow Room, telegraphed his precious
subordinate to London, where he had been sent on a big case of
stolen securities, to return with all haste. Frederic who, at the
Surete, was called the "great Frederic," had made all speed,
doubtless knowing by experience that, if he was interrupted in what
he was doing, it was because his services were urgently needed in
another direction; so, as Rouletabille said, he was that morning
already "at work." We soon found out in what it consisted.
What he was continually looking at in the palm of his right hand
was nothing but his watch, the minute hand of which he appeared
to be noting intently. Then he turned back still running, stopping
only when he reached the park gate, where he again consulted his
watch and then put it away in his pocket, shrugging his shoulders
with a gesture of discouragement. He pushed open the park gate,
reclosed and locked it, raised his head and, through the bars,
perceived us. Rouletabille rushed after him, and I followed.
Frederic Larsan waited for us.
"Monsieur Fred," said Rouletabille, raising his hat and showing the
profound respect, based on admiration, which the young reporter felt
for the celebrated detective, "can you tell me whether Monsieur
Robert Darzac is at the chateau at this moment? Here is one of his
friends, of the Paris Bar, who desires to speak with him."
"I really don't know, Monsieur Rouletabille," replied Fred, shaking
hands with my friend, whom he had several times met in the course
of his difficult investigations. "I have not seen him."
"The concierges will be able to inform us no doubt?" said
Rouletabille, pointing to the lodge the door and windows of which
were close shut.
"The concierges will not be able to give you any information,
Monsieur Rouletabille."
"Why not?"
"Because they were arrested half an hour ago."
"Arrested!" cried Rouletabille; "then they are the murderers!"
Frederic Larsan shrugged his shoulders.
"When you can't arrest the real murderer," he said with an air of
supreme irony, "you can always indulge in the luxury of discovering
accomplices."
"Did you have them arrested, Monsieur Fred?"
"Not I!--I haven't had them arrested. In the first place, I am
pretty sure that they have not had anything to do with the affair,
and then because--"
"Because of what?" asked Rouletabille eagerly.
"Because of nothing," said Larsan, shaking his head.
"Because there were no accomplices!" said Rouletabille.
"Aha!--you have an idea, then, about this matter?" said Larsan,
looking at Rouletabille intently, "yet you have seen nothing, young
man--you have not yet gained admission here!"
"I shall get admission."
"I doubt it. The orders are strict."
"I shall gain admission, if you let me see Monsieur Robert Darzac.
Do that for me. You know we are old friends. I beg of you,
Monsieur Fred. Do you remember the article I wrote about you on
the gold bar case?"
The face of Rouletabille at the moment was really funny to look at.
It showed such an irresistible desire to cross the threshold beyond
which some prodigious mystery had occurred; it appealed with so much
eloquence, not only of the mouth and eyes, but with all its features,
that I could not refrain from bursting into laughter. Frederic
Larsan, no more than myself, could retain his gravity. Meanwhile,
standing on the other side of the gate, he calmly put the key in
his pocket. I closely scrutinised him.
He might be about fifty years of age. He had a fine head, his hair
turning grey; a colourless complexion, and a firm profile. His
forehead was prominent, his chin and cheeks clean shaven. His upper
lip, without moustache, was finely chiselled. His eyes were rather
small and round, with a look in them that was at once searching and
disquieting. He was of middle height and well built, with a general
bearing elegant and gentlemanly. There was nothing about him of
the vulgar policeman. In his way, he was an artist, and one felt
that he had a high opinion of himself. The sceptical tone of his
conversation was that of a man who had been taught by experience.
His strange profession had brought him into contact with so many
crimes and villanies that it would have been remarkable if his
nature had not been a little hardened.
Larsan turned his head at the sound of a vehicle which had come from
the chateau and reached the gate behind him. We recognised the cab
which had conveyed the examining magistrate and his Registrar from
the station at Epinay.
"Ah!" said Frederic Larsan, "if you want to speak with Monsieur
Robert Darzac, he is here."
The cab was already at the park gate and Robert Darzac was begging
Frederic Larsan to open it for him, explaining that he was pressed
for time to catch the next train leaving Epinay for Paris. Then he
recognised me. While Larsan was unlocking the gate, Monsieur Darzac
inquired what had brought me to the Glandier at such a tragic moment.
I noticed that he was frightfully pale, and that his face was lined
as if from the effects of some terrible suffering.
"Is Mademoiselle getting better?" I immediately asked.
"Yes," he said. "She will be saved perhaps. She must be saved!"
He did not add "or it will be my death"; but I felt that the phrase
trembled on his pale lips.
Rouletabille intervened:
"You are in a hurry, Monsieur; but I must speak with you. I have
something of the greatest importance to tell you."
Frederic Larsan interrupted:
"May I leave you?" he asked of Robert Darzac. "Have you a key, or
do you wish me to give you this one."
"Thank you. I have a key and will lock the gate."
Larsan hurried off in the direction of the chateau, the imposing
pile of which could be perceived a few hundred yards away.
Robert Darzac, with knit brow, was beginning to show impatience. I
presented Rouletabille as a good friend
of mine, but, as soon as he
learnt that the young man was a journalist, he looked at me very
reproachfully, excused himself, under the necessity of having to
reach Epinay in twenty minutes, bowed, and whipped up his horse.
But Rouletabille had seized the bridle and, to my utter astonishment,
stopped the carriage with a vigorous hand. Then he gave utterance
to a sentence which was utterly meaningless to me.
"The presbytery has lost nothing of its charm, nor the garden its
brightness."
The words had no sooner left the lips of Rouletabille than I saw
Robert Darzac quail. Pale as he was, he became paler. His eyes
were fixed on the young man in terror, and he immediately
descended from the vehicle in an inexpressible state of agitation.
"Come!--come in!" he stammered.
Then, suddenly, and with a sort of fury, he repeated:
"Let us go, monsieur."
He turned up by the road he had come from the chateau, Rouletabille
still retaining his hold on the horse's bridle. I addressed a few
words to Monsieur Darzac, but he made no answer. My looks
questioned Rouletabille, but his gaze was elsewhere.
CHAPTER VI
In the Heart of the Oak Grove
We reached the chateau, and, as we approached it, saw four
gendarmes pacing in front of a little door in the ground floor of
the donjon. We soon learned that in this ground floor, which had
formerly served as a prison, Monsieur and Madame Bernier, the
concierges, were confined. Monsieur Robert Darzac led us into the
modern part of the chateau by a large door, protected by a
projecting awning--a "marquise" as it is called. Rouletabille,
who had resigned the horse and the cab to the care of a servant,
never took his eyes off Monsieur Darzac. I followed his look and
perceived that it was directed solely towards the gloved hands of
the Sorbonne professor. When we were in a tiny sitting-room
fitted with old furniture, Monsieur Darzac turned to Rouletabille
and said sharply:
"What do you want?"
The reporter answered in an equally sharp tone:
"To shake you by the hand."
Darzac shrank back.
"What does that mean?"
Evidently he understood, what I also understood, that my friend
suspected him of the abominable attempt on the life of
Mademoiselle Stangerson. The impression of the blood-stained hand
on the walls of The Yellow Room was in his mind. I looked at the
man closely. His haughty face with its expression ordinarily so
straightforward was at this moment strangely troubled. He held out
his right hand and, referring to me, said:
"As you are a friend of Monsieur Sainclair who has rendered me
invaluable services in a just cause, monsieur, I see no reason for
refusing you my hand--"
Rouletabille did not take the extended hand. Lying with the utmost
audacity, he said:
"Monsieur, I have lived several years in Russia, where I have
acquired the habit of never taking any but an ungloved hand."
I thought that the Sorbonne professor would express his anger openly,
but, on the contrary, by a visibly violent effort, he calmed himself,
took off his gloves, and showed his hands; they were unmarked by any
cicatrix.
"Are you satisfied?"
"No!" replied Rouletabille. "My dear friend," he said, turning
to me, "I am obliged to ask you to leave us alone for a moment."
I bowed and retired; stupefied by what I had seen and heard. I
could not understand why Monsieur Robert Darzac had not already
shown the door to my impertinent, insulting, and stupid friend.
I was angry myself with Rouletabille at that moment, for his
suspicions, which had led to this scene of the gloves.
For some twenty minutes I walked about in front of the chateau,