Thus spoke M. Robert Darzac, and this is not an approximate report of what he said, Rouletabille and I both judged his statement of sufficient importance to set it down as precisely as we could as soon as we arrived at Menton. We set to work together, and when we had finished, we submitted the text to M. Robert Darzac, who, after making a few minor changes, declared it to be exact, and it remained as I have set it down here.
That night, nothing worthy of mention occurred. At Menton-Garavan station they were met by Mr Arthur Rance, who was much surprised to see the newly-weds. However, when he learned that they had decided to pay him a short visit with M. Stangerson, thus accepting a pressing invitation which, until now, M. Darzac had, under one pretext or another, consistently refused, he appeared delighted and declared that his wife would be equally so. He also expressed his pleasure at the prospect of Rouletabille’s arrival. Arthur Rance had been somewhat hurt by the coolness with which M. Robert Darzac had treated him since his marriage to Miss Edith Prescott. Upon the occasion of his last trip to San Remo, the young Sorbonne Professor had merely made a formal call at the Chateau d’Hercule. However, when he returned to France, on passing through the station at Menton-Garavan, which is the first stop after the frontier, he had been met by the Rances who, being informed by the Stangersons of his impending arrival, had gone to the station to surprise him and to compliment him effusively upon his improved appearance. In a word, it was not Arthur Rance’s fault if his relations with the Darzacs were not on the most cordial of footings.
We have seen how the reappearance of Larsan at Bourg had upset all M. and Madame Darzac’s plans and had so disturbed their peace of mind as to make them forget their reserve with regard to the Rances, and cause them, in company with Professor Stangerson, to accept the hospitality of people for whom they did not care, but whom they nevertheless considered honourable, loyal and willing, if need be, to defend them. In the meantime, they summoned Rouletabille to their aid. Panic reigned among them, and was clearly visible in Darzac’s face when we were joined at Nice station by Arthur Rance. However, before he met us, a little incident occurred which I cannot pass over. As soon as we reached Nice, I sprang on to the platform and hurried to the station office to ask if there was a message for me. I was handed a slip of blue paper and, without reading it, I hurried back to Rouletabille and M. Darzac.
‘Read it,’ I said to Rouletabille.
He opened the telegram, and read: ‘Brignolles has definitely not left Paris since April 6th.’
Rouletabille looked at me and burst into peals of laughter.
‘Oh, I say!’ he exclaimed. ‘Did you ask for that information? What did you expect?’
Rather annoyed by Rouletabille’s response, I replied: ‘It was at Dijon that it struck me that Brignolles might be in some way implicated in the misfortunes which the message we had received led us to foresee. So I asked one of my friends to find out for me what that unspeakable man was doing. I was curious to know if he was still in Paris.’
‘Well,’ said Rouletabille, ‘now you know. Do you suspect that behind Brignolles’ pale features lurk those of the resurrected Larsan?’
‘Certainly not!’ I said rather sharply, for I had an idea that Rouletabille was poking fun at me. That was, in fact, precisely what I had thought.
‘Haven’t you done with Brignolles yet?’ Darzac asked sadly. ‘He’s not much of a man, but he’s not a bad fellow, after all.’
‘I cannot agree,’ I retorted.
I returned to my corner. According to Rouletabille, I do not, as a rule, have much luck with my personal observations, and he often made fun of them. But this time we received proof some days later that if Brignolles was not concealing in his person the identity of Larsan, he was, nevertheless, a scoundrel. To be fair, later, Rouletabille and Darzac, convinced of the correctness of my judgement, properly apologised. However, let us not anticipate. I have mentioned this incident purely in order to call attention to the degree to which I was haunted by the belief that Larsan was hiding, in disguise, amongst the members of our entourage, whom we knew but slightly. After all, Ballmeyer had so often proved his talent, nay, his genius in that direction, that I had grown to suspect everybody. I soon came to the conclusion, however – and Mr Arthur Rance’s unexpected arrival on the scene did much to alter my mind – that Larsan had this time changed his tactics. Far from hiding, the scoundrel showed himself openly to some of us, with unparalleled audacity. What did he have to fear here? Certainly neither M. Darzac nor his wife would denounce him, and consequently their friends would not do so either. His object seemed to be to ruin the happiness of that couple who had believed themselves for ever rid of him. But in that case, why should he take his revenge in this way? Would not his purpose have been better served by showing himself before the wedding ever took place? He could have prevented it. Yes, but he would have had to show himself in Paris, and we could only suppose that the danger of doing so there had deterred him. Who knows?
Let us, however, listen to Arthur Rance, who has joined us on the train. Rance, of course, knows nothing of Larsan’s appearance at Bourg, nothing of his having been seen on the train, and he brings us terrifying news. We have to give up what hope we had of having lost Larsan on the Couloz line. Arthur Rance has also just seen Larsan! He has come on ahead in order to warn us, so that we may know how to act when we reach our destination.
‘We had just left you at the station,’ said Rance to Darzac. ‘When your train had started, your wife, M. Stangerson and I went for a walk as far as the pier at Menton. M. Stangerson had given his arm to Madame Darzac and was talking to her. I was on M. Stangerson’s right, he, therefore, was between us. Suddenly, as we stopped at the gate of the public garden in order to let a tram pass, I bumped against a man, who said, “Sorry.” I shuddered, for I knew that voice. I looked up. It was Larsan! It was the voice I had heard in the courtroom. He stared at the three of us with steady eyes. I don’t know how I managed to suppress the cry that rose to my lips – the wretch’s name – how it was that I did not shout out: “Larsan!” I hurried Professor Stangerson and his daughter, neither of whom had seen anything, away from the spot. I took them for a short turn around the bandstand and at last directed them towards a row of cabs waiting beside the kerb. On the pavement, standing in front of the cab was Larsan! I really cannot understand how Professor Stangerson and his daughter did not see him.’
‘Are you quite sure they didn’t?’ asked Robert Darzac anxiously.
‘Absolutely certain. I pretended to feel unwell. We jumped into the cab, and I directed the driver to make haste. The man was still standing on the pavement when we drove off, staring at us with his hard, cold eyes.’
‘And are you quite sure that my wife did not see him?’ Darzac asked again, with growing agitation.
‘My word!’ broke in Rouletabille. ‘If you think, M. Darzac, that you will ever be able to conceal from your wife the reality of Larsan’s reappearance, you are greatly mistaken.’
‘Nevertheless,’ answered Darzac, ‘towards the end of our journey the idea that she had suffered an hallucination had begun to take root in her mind, and when we reached Garavan, she appeared to be quite calm.’
‘When you reached Garavan!’ said Rouletabille. ‘Here, my dear M. Darzac, is the wire your wife sent to me.’
Rouletabille handed him the telegram, which contained the single word ‘Help’.
This seemed a terrible blow to the unfortunate Darzac. ‘She will go mad again,’ he said, shaking his head sadly.
That was what we all feared. When we arrived at Menton-Garavan, we were met by M. Stangerson and his daughter. She had come out, notwithstanding the formal promise which the Professor had made to Rance to remain at Rochers Rouges until his return, for reasons which he would explain later, and which Rance had not yet had the time to invent.
Strangely enough, Madame Darzac greeted Rouletabille with an exclamation which was but the echo of our own terror. As soon as she saw the young man, she rus
hed towards him, and we felt that she was making a great effort to keep from clasping him in her arms. I saw that she clung to him as a drowning man clings to the hand held out to save him, and I heard her murmur:
‘I fear that I shall go mad again!’
As for Rouletabille, I had sometimes seen him as pale as he was then, but never more utterly, totally cool.
CHAPTER VI
The Chateau d’Hercule
A traveller alighting at the station at Garavan, whatever the season, might well think that he had entered the garden of the Hesperides. The whole atmosphere and the surroundings of this magical place conspire to make one feel that way. It is common knowledge that the Phœnicians, when they found shelter under the shadow of the great rock which was later to become the seat of the Grimaldis, gave the little port which it protects, as indeed they did to many another capes and headlands along the Côte d’Azur, the name of Hercules, because he was their god. I imagine, however, that this was just such a spot as Hercules would have chosen as a cool and scented resting-place from his labours. And, doubtless, Hercules had prepared it ready for his Olympian comrades by ridding it of the hundred-headed dragon which, as we know, wanted to keep the whole Riviera to himself. Indeed, I am not so sure that the bones of the Elephas antiquus, which were discovered some years since at Rochers Rouges, were not, in fact, the bones of the dragon in question. When, having walked down from the station, we reached the shore, we were all struck by the dazzling vision of the old castle silhouetted on the horizon, standing on the Hercules Peninsula, which, alas, the works carried out at the frontier swept away about ten years ago.
Beneath the rays of the afternoon sun, the castle seemed to stand out like an old sentinel, still keeping watch over the azure bay of Garavan. As we got nearer, the brilliance seemed to diminish, and when we stood under the walls in the setting sun, the building seemed merely a threatening shadow, and, somehow, when we crossed the threshold, a hostile one.
On the lower steps of a narrow stairway which led to one of the towers, stood a pale but charming figure: the wife of Arthur Rance, the beautiful and brilliant Edith. Surely the Bride of Lammermoor could have looked no fairer on the day that she was saved by the stranger with the dark eyes! But, alas, Edith, Lucie had blue eyes, Lucie was blonde. And when one wants to cut the right romantic image, languishing and melancholy, against a medieval backdrop, one must not have eyes like yours, my lady. And your locks are raven-hued. That is not the angelic colour.
Are you an angel, Edith? Is this languor of yours quite natural? Is not this sweetness of expression a little deceptive? Forgive all these questions, but when I saw you for the first time, captivated though I was by the delicate harmony of your beauty, I followed the gaze of your dark eyes whenever you looked at Professor Stangerson’s daughter, and I saw that there was a hard glint in them, which was in strange contrast to the caressing tone of your voice and the easy smile on your lips.
Certainly the voice of this young woman does have a peculiar charm, and she is graceful and has perfect manners.
To the introductions made by Arthur Rance she responded with simple but hospitable cordiality. Rouletabille and I made an effort to retain our freedom, as it were, by saying that we would not be staying at the castle. But she pouted in a deliciously childish way and begged us to stay, declaring that our rooms were quite ready, and that she would not take no for an answer.
‘Oh, do come: I’m sure you will like the castle. There are dark corners that will give you the shivers. So gloomy and romantic. I’m sure they will frighten you. I love to be frightened, don’t you, Monsieur Rouletabille? You will tell me some frightening stories, won’t you?’
And then she went ahead of us, walking with all the grace and freedom of an actress. She showed us the oriental-style garden between the looming tower and the arches of the ruined chapel overgrown with flowers. The courtyard which we crossed was so encumbered with undergrowth – foliage, cacti and aloes, wild roses and marguerites – that one might have thought an eternal springtime had settled on this spot, which, once upon a time, had resounded with all the pomp and circumstance of war.
Indeed, the courtyard had, by sheer negligence, been transformed from a military parade ground into a garden, a wild garden in which no attempt had been made to keep order. And, as a backdrop to this natural wilderness and to the scented undergrowth, rose the delicately picturesque ruins of the old chapel: flamboyant Gothic arches rising out of the ruins of the old Romanesque chapel, the pillars adorned with creepers, especially thick and abundant at their bases, so that the arches seem to grow out of that greenness. The chapel had neither roof nor walls, only the arches, which now seemed to represent a delicate tracery, a lacework of stones suspended in the evening air as if by magic.
On our left was the massive twelfth-century tower, which the country folk, so Mrs Rance told us, called La Louve (‘The She-wolf), and against which neither power of man, peace or war, cannon or tempest, had ever prevailed. It was just as it had appeared to the Saracen pirates in 1107, when they seized the Lerin Islands but could do nothing against the Chateau d’Hercule. It still stood as it had appeared to the Genoese freebooters, when, even after the capture of the square tower and the old castle, this one building remained unscathed, and held out until rescued by the Princes of Provence. It was in this impregnable fortress that Mrs Rance chose to place her private apartments.
‘How cheerful Edith is!’ murmured Arthur Rance. ‘I believe she is the only one amongst us who is.’
We passed through the postern and found ourselves in another courtyard, while in front of us lay the old dungeon. It was a truly impressive sight: tall and square, and for this reason, it was sometimes called the Square Tower. As this tower occupied the most important corner of the fortification, it was also called the Corner Tower. It was, as a matter of fact, the key point in that whole complex of fortifications. The walls were thicker than elsewhere, and at the base there was Roman cement which still held the stones together, stones that had been placed one upon the other by Caesar’s colonists.
‘That tower on the opposite corner,’ continued Edith, ‘is Charles the Bold’s Tower, so called because it was the Duke who drew up the plans when it became necessary to make the castle artillery-proof. Oh, yes, I am quite learned about it all. Old Bob, that is to say, my uncle, who always likes me to call him that, has turned this tower into a study. It’s a bit of a pity really, because it would have made a magnificent dining-room, but then, you know, I always let Old Bob have his own way in everything. He isn’t here just now, he left five days ago for Paris, but he’s coming back tomorrow. He went to Paris to compare the anatomical remains that he found at Rochers Rouges with those in the Natural History Museum in Paris. Ah, and this is the oubliette.’
She indicated a well in the middle of this second courtyard, which she referred to as an ‘oubliette’. Growing over it was a eucalyptus tree, suggesting in its leafless form a woman leaning over a spring.
After going through the second courtyard, we were better able to understand the layout of the Chateau d’Hercule, at least, I was. As for Rouletabille, he seemed neither to see nor hear anything that was going on. Since, in view of the incredible things which were about to take place, the arrangement of the castle is particularly important, for the benefit of the reader, I have sketched a plan such as the one drawn up by Rouletabille himself later.
The castle had been built in 1140 by the Lords of Mortola. In order to isolate the castle completely, the first builders had made the peninsula into an island by cutting through the little isthmus that connected it to the shore. On the shore itself they had constructed a rough, semi-circular fortification designed to protect the approach to the drawbridge and the two entrance towers. No trace, however, of this fortification was left, and the isthmus itself had in course of time re-formed. The drawbridge had been taken away, and the moat was now filled up. The castle walls closely followed the shape of the peninsula, which was that of an irregular hexagon.
The walls rose sheer from the extreme edge of the rocks which had been slightly worn away at the base by the waves, so that in some places a small boat in calm weather could remain completely hidden, an opportunity which, in times past, the defenders had availed themselves of to resist attacks from the sea.
The entrance by the northern gate is guarded by the two towers A and AA, connected by an archway. These towers had both suffered badly in the sieges to which the castle had been subjected, but Mrs Rance had repaired them sufficiently to render them habitable, and had put them to various domestic uses.
The ground floor of tower A was the gate-keeper’s lodge, arranged in such a way as to enable the gate-keeper to take due note of all the comings and goings. The old iron-bound oak door had been found so difficult to manage that it was no longer used, and entrance to the castle was through a little modern gate which was hardly ever locked. Having passed through this gate, one found oneself in the first courtyard, which was surrounded on every side by the outer walls of the castle and by the towers, or what remained of them. The outer walls were no longer their original height. The ramparts that had once connected the towers had been razed nearly to the level of the courtyard and been replaced by a sort of circular walk, which one climbed from the inside up a gentle incline. This walk was still flanked by a pierced parapet – pierced, that is, to allow the use of crossbow, arquebus or musket – a change clearly dating from about the fifteenth century when the whole place was beginning to have to reckon with artillery. As for the towers marked BB and BBB, which for a long time had preserved their original form – the pointed roof having simply been replaced by a flat platform from which to work light artillery – these had also finally been razed to the height of the parapet along the outside walk. It appeared that this change had been effected in the sixteenth century, at the time of the construction of a new wing, still called the New Castle, even though it was now in ruins. This New Castle was situated in C, CC.