Monday's Illustrated Word: untitled by Fred Methot (in English)

art by Reg Greenwood - Tip Top Comics v.6 #12 (#72) - United Feature, April 1942.

 

 

Good Reading: "Good Salt" by Ludwig Bechstein (translated into English)

 

Long ago a king had three good and beautiful daughters that he loved dearly, and they loved him. He had no son, but in that kingdom a queen might rule too. The king's wife was dead, so he could choose a daughter to succeed him, and not necessarily the oldest of them.

The time came to pick the coming queen among the three, but since he loved them all alike, he decided to test them in order to find out more of which of them seemed best fit to rule the country after him. He then told his daughters of what he had determined, and that they would be tested on his next birthday. "The one who brings me what cannot be dispensed with, will inherit the throne," he said.

Each of the princesses tried to find out what one cannot be without. And when the birthday came, the oldest daughter came dressed in a fine, purple robe, saying, "After the gates of paradise were closed, some clothing seems been needed."

The second daughter brought fresh bread that she had baked herself, and a gold cup filled with wine. She said, "The most indispensable is food and drink. We can hardly live without fruits and berries, grapes and bread and wine, I should say."

The youngest daughter brought a little pile of salt on a wooden platter, saying, "Salt and wood - we cannot be without it!"

The king was rather surprised at first, then thoughtful, and at last he said: "I may be partial, but the robe of royal purple is what is most necessary in the world, at least for a king. Without it, he looks like other men. Therefore, dear daughter," he said, turning to the eldest one and kissing her, "you have won!"

The king said to the second oldest: "Food and drink is not always necessary, dear. Besides, it is suited for common people too! However, you meant well." He did not kiss her.

Then he turned to the third princess who suspected that her choices were not fully appreciated.

"You have probably got salt on your wooden plate, daughter," said the king, but salt is not necessary! Daughter, your soul is like that of a peasant, not a king's offspring. Get away as far as your feet can carry you - go to the rough folks who think salt is all that needed!"

The youngest daughter turned weeping from her harsh father and went away from the court and from the royal city, far, far away, as far as her feet carried her.

She came to an inn and offered to serve the woman who kept it. The woman was touched by her meekness, innocence, youth and beauty, and hired her as a maid in the house. The princess proved to be very skilful about work in the house. Her hostess said, "It would be too bad if that girl should learn nothing more. I will teach her to cook." So the king's daughter learned to cook and soon she cooked many dishes better than her mistress. The excellent food made the inn well known. A young, beautiful cook was behind the delicious meals there. The reputation of the inn spread through the entire land. Whenever a rich banquet was to be held, the famous cook was called in.

One day the eldest princess was getting married. It was to be a royal wedding. They wanted the renowned cook to take care of the dishes and thereby put a finishing touch to the feast, for not every gentleman at court agreed with the king who had said that to eat and drink was not necessary. What would good feasts be without it? they said, and some added the old proverb that food and drink keep body and soul together.

All kinds of rich dishes were prepared for the wedding feast, and also the dish that the king liked best, and which was ordered specially for the occasion. Everyone praised the food a lot. Lastly, the king's special dish was brought in and offered to him first. But when he tasted it he found it unpleasant to taste and hard to accept. His face darkened, and he said to the first servants that were waiting on him: "This dish is spoiled! Get the cook in here!"

The cook very soon came into the great banquet hall, and the king said angrily to her, "You have spoiled the dish I like best!"

Then the cook said humbly, "Pardon me, but how could I put salt in the food of a king who once said 'Salt is unnecessary; no one needs salt! Salt shows that you have the soul of a peasant.'"

The king remembered that these were his own words, and got ashamed. He also recognised the daughter he had once shooed. He stood up and embraced her. Then he told the tale to all the wedding guests and led his youngest daughter to a seat by his side. The king was happy again, which he had not been since he harshly drove her away. Now the wedding was better than ever.

The king admitted, "Salt can be useful to other than laymen at times, all right," and salted his favourite dish until he got it just the way he liked it.

Friday's Sung Word: "Três Apitos" by Noel Rosa (in Portuguese)

Quando o apito da fábrica de tecidos
Vem ferir os meus ouvidos
Eu me lembro de você

Mas você anda sem dúvida bem zangada
E está interessada
Em fingir que não me vê

Você que atende ao apito de uma chaminé de barro
Porque não atende ao grito, tão aflito
Da buzina do meu carro

Você no inverno sem meias vai pro trabalho
Não faz fé com agasalho
Nem no frio você crê

Mas você é mesmo artigo que não se imita
Quando a fábrica apita
Faz reclame de você

Nos meus olhos você lê
Que eu sofro cruelmente
Com ciúmes do gerente, impertinente
Que dá ordens a você

Sou do sereno poeta muito soturno
Vou virar guarda-noturno
E você sabe porque

Mas você não sabe, que enquanto você faz pano
Faço junto ao piano
Estes versos pra você.

 

You can listen "Três Apitos" sung by Aracy de Almeida here.

Thursday's Serial: “The Light of Western Stars” by Zane Grey (in English) - VI

VIII - EL CAPITAN

Stillwell's interest in the revolution across the Mexican line had manifestly increased with the news that Gene Stewart had achieved distinction with the rebel forces. Thereafter the old cattleman sent for El Paso and Douglas newspapers, wrote to ranchmen he knew on the big bend of the Rio Grande, and he would talk indefinitely to any one who would listen to him. There was not any possibility of Stillwell's friends at the ranch forgetting his favorite cowboy. Stillwell always prefaced his eulogy with an apologetic statement that Stewart had gone to the bad. Madeline liked to listen to him, though she was not always sure which news was authentic and which imagination.

There appeared to be no doubt, however, that the cowboy had performed some daring feats for the rebels. Madeline found his name mentioned in several of the border papers. When the rebels under Madero stormed and captured the city of Juarez, Stewart did fighting that won him the name of El Capitan. This battle apparently ended the revolution. The capitulation of President Diaz followed shortly, and there was a feeling of relief among ranchers on the border from Texas to California. Nothing more was heard of Gene Stewart until April, when a report reached Stillwell that the cowboy had arrived in El Cajon, evidently hunting trouble. The old cattleman saddled a horse and started post-haste for town. In two days he returned, depressed in spirit. Madeline happened to be present when Stillwell talked to Alfred.

“I got there too late, Al,” said the cattleman. “Gene was gone. An' what do you think of this? Danny Mains hed jest left with a couple of burros packed. I couldn't find what way he went, but I'm bettin' he hit the Peloncillo trail.”

“Danny will show up some day,” replied Alfred. “What did you learn about Stewart? Maybe he left with Danny.”

“Not much,” said Stillwell, shortly. “Gene's hell-bent fer election! No mountains fer him.”

“Well tell us about him.”

Stillwell wiped his sweaty brow and squared himself to talk.

“Wal, it's sure amazin' strange about Gene. Its got me locoed. He arrived in El Cajon a week or so ago. He was trained down like as if he'd been ridin' the range all winter. He hed plenty of money—Mex, they said. An' all the Greasers was crazy about him. Called him El Capitan. He got drunk an' went roarin' round fer Pat Hawe. You remember that Greaser who was plugged last October—the night Miss Majesty arrived? Wal, he's daid. He's daid, an' people says thet Pat is a-goin' to lay thet killin' onto Gene. I reckon thet's jest talk, though Pat is mean enough to do it, if he hed the nerve. Anyway, if he was in El Cajon he kept mighty much to hisself. Gene walked up an' down, up an' down, all day an' night, lookin' fer Pat. But he didn't find him. An', of course, he kept gettin' drunker. He jest got plumb bad. He made lots of trouble, but there wasn't no gun-play. Mebbe thet made him sore, so he went an' licked Flo's brother-in-law. Thet wasn't so bad. Jack sure needed a good lickin'. Wal, then Gene met Danny an' tried to get Danny drunk. An' he couldn't! What do you think of that? Danny hedn't been drinkin'—wouldn't touch a drop. I'm sure glad of thet, but it's amazin' strange. Why, Danny was a fish fer red liquor. I guess he an' Gene had some pretty hard words, though I'm not sure about thet. Anyway, Gene went down to the railroad an' he got on an engine, an' he was in the engine when it pulled out. Lord, I hope he doesn't hold up the train! If he gets gay over in Arizona he'll go to the pen at Yuma. An' thet pen is a graveyard fer cowboys. I wired to agents along the railroad to look out fer Stewart, an' to wire back to me if he's located.”

“Suppose you do find him, Stillwell, what can you do?” inquired Alfred.

The old man nodded gloomily.

“I straightened him up once. Mebbe I can do it again.” Then, brightening somewhat, he turned to Madeline. “I jest hed an idee, Miss Majesty. If I can get him, Gene Stewart is the cowboy I want fer my foreman. He can manage this bunch of cow-punchers thet are drivin' me dotty. What's more, since he's fought fer the rebels an' got that name El Capitan, all the Greasers in the country will kneel to him. Now, Miss Majesty, we hevn't got rid of Don Carlos an' his vaqueros yet. To be sure, he sold you his house an' ranch an' stock. But you remember nothin' was put in black and white about when he should get out. An' Don Carlos ain't gettin' out. I don't like the looks of things a little bit. I'll tell you now thet Don Carlos knows somethin' about the cattle I lost, an' thet you've been losin' right along. Thet Greaser is hand an' glove with the rebels. I'm willin' to gamble thet when he does get out he an' his vaqueros will make another one of the bands of guerrillas thet are harassin' the border. This revolution ain't over' yet. It's jest commenced. An' all these gangs of outlaws are goin' to take advantage of it. We'll see some old times, mebbe. Wal, I need Gene Stewart. I need him bad. Will you let me hire him, Miss Majesty, if I can get him straightened up?”

The old cattleman ended huskily.

“Stillwell, by all means find Stewart, and do not wait to straighten him up. Bring him to the ranch,” replied Madeline.

Thanking her, Stillwell led his horse away.

“Strange how he loves that cowboy!” murmured Madeline.

“Not so strange, Majesty,” replied her brother. “Not when you know. Stewart has been with Stillwell on some hard trips into the desert alone. There's no middle course of feeling between men facing death in the desert. Either they hate each other or love each other. I don't know, but I imagine Stewart did something for Stillwell—saved us life, perhaps. Besides, Stewart's a lovable chap when he's going straight. I hope Stillwell brings him back. We do need him, Majesty. He's a born leader. Once I saw him ride into a bunch of Mexicans whom we suspected of rustling. It was fine to see him. Well, I'm sorry to tell you that we are worried about Don Carlos. Some of his vaqueros came into my yard the other day when I had left Flo alone. She had a bad scare. These vaqueros have been different since Don Carlos sold the ranch. For that matter, I never would have trusted a white woman alone with them. But they are bolder now. Something's in the wind. They've got assurance. They can ride off any night and cross the border.”

During the succeeding week Madeline discovered that a good deal of her sympathy for Stillwell in his hunt for the reckless Stewart had insensibly grown to be sympathy for the cowboy. It was rather a paradox, she thought, that opposed to the continual reports of Stewart's wildness as he caroused from town to town were the continual expressions of good will and faith and hope universally given out by those near her at the ranch. Stillwell loved the cowboy; Florence was fond of him; Alfred liked and admired him, pitied him; the cowboys swore their regard for him the more he disgraced himself. The Mexicans called him El Gran Capitan. Madeline's personal opinion of Stewart had not changed in the least since the night it had been formed. But certain attributes of his, not clearly defined in her mind, and the gift of his beautiful horse, his valor with the fighting rebels, and all this strange regard for him, especially that of her brother, made her exceedingly regret the cowboy's present behavior.

Meanwhile Stillwell was so earnest and zealous that one not familiar with the situation would have believed he was trying to find and reclaim his own son. He made several trips to little stations in the valley, and from these he returned with a gloomy face. Madeline got the details from Alfred. Stewart was going from bad to worse—drunk, disorderly, savage, sure to land in the penitentiary. Then came a report that hurried Stillwell off to Rodeo. He returned on the third day, a crushed man. He had been so bitterly hurt that no one, not even Madeline, could get out of him what had happened. He admitted finding Stewart, failing to influence him; and when the old cattleman got so far he turned purple in the face and talked to himself, as if dazed: “But Gene was drunk. He was drunk, or he couldn't hev treated old Bill like thet!”

Madeline was stirred with an anger toward the brutal cowboy that was as strong as her sorrow for the loyal old cattleman. And it was when Stillwell gave up that she resolved to take a hand. The persistent faith of Stillwell, his pathetic excuses in the face of what must have been Stewart's violence, perhaps baseness, actuated her powerfully, gave her new insight into human nature. She honored a faith that remained unshaken. And the strange thought came to her that Stewart must somehow be worthy of such a faith, or he never could have inspired it. Madeline discovered that she wanted to believe that somewhere deep down in the most depraved and sinful wretch upon earth there was some grain of good. She yearned to have the faith in human nature that Stillwell had in Stewart.

She sent Nels, mounted upon his own horse, and leading Majesty, to Rodeo in search of Stewart. Nels had instructions to bring Stewart back to the ranch. In due time Nels returned, leading the roan without a rider.

“Yep, I shore found him,” replied Nels, when questioned. “Found him half sobered up. He'd been in a scrap, an' somebody hed put him to sleep, I guess. Wal, when he seen thet roan hoss he let out a yell an' grabbed him round the neck. The hoss knowed him, all right. Then Gene hugged the hoss an' cried—cried like—I never seen no one who cried like he did. I waited awhile, an' was jest goin' to say somethin' to him when he turned on me red-eyed, mad as fire. 'Nels,' he said, 'I care a hell of a lot fer thet boss, an' I liked you pretty well, but if you don't take him away quick I'll shoot you both.' Wal, I lit out. I didn't even git to say howdy to him.”

“Nels, you think it useless—any attempt to see him—persuade him?” asked Madeline.

“I shore do, Miss Hammond,” replied Nels, gravely. “I've seen a few sun-blinded an' locoed an' snake-poisoned an' skunk-bitten cow-punchers in my day, but Gene Stewart beats 'em all. He's shore runnin' wild fer the divide.”

Madeline dismissed Nels, but before he got out of earshot she heard him speak to Stillwell, who awaited him on the porch.

“Bill, put this in your pipe an' smoke it—none of them scraps Gene has hed was over a woman! It used to be thet when he was drank he'd scrap over every pretty Greaser girl he'd run across. Thet's why Pat Hawe thinks Gene plugged the strange vaquero who was with little Bonita thet night last fall. Wal, Gene's scrappin' now jest to git shot up hisself, for some reason thet only God Almighty knows.”

Nels's story of how Stewart wept over his horse influenced Madeline powerfully. Her next move was to persuade Alfred to see if he could not do better with this doggedly bent cowboy. Alfred needed only a word of persuasion, for he said he had considered going to Rodeo of his own accord. He went, and returned alone.

“Majesty, I can't explain Stewart's singular actions,” said Alfred. “I saw him, talked with him. He knew me, but nothing I said appeared to get to him. He has changed terribly. I fancy his once magnificent strength is breaking. It—it actually hurt me to look at him. I couldn't have fetched him back here—not as he is now. I heard all about him, and if he isn't downright out of his mind he's hell-bent, as Bill says, on getting killed. Some of his escapades are—are not for your ears. Bill did all any man could do for another. We've all done our best for Stewart. If you'd been given a chance perhaps you could have saved him. But it's too late. Put it out of mind now, dear.”

Madeline, however, did not forget nor give it up. If she had forgotten or surrendered, she felt that she would have been relinquishing infinitely more than hope to aid one ruined man. But she was at a loss to know what further steps to take. Days passed, and each one brought additional gossip of Stewart's headlong career toward the Yuma penitentiary. For he had crossed the line into Cochise County, Arizona, where sheriffs kept a stricter observance of law. Finally a letter came from a friend of Nels's in Chiricahua saying that Stewart had been hurt in a brawl there. His hurt was not serious, but it would probably keep him quiet long enough to get sober, and this opportunity, Nels's informant said, would be a good one for Stewart's friends to take him home before he got locked up. This epistle inclosed a letter to Stewart from his sister. Evidently, it had been found upon him. It told a story of illness and made an appeal for aid. Nels's friend forwarded this letter without Stewart's knowledge, thinking Stillwell might care to help Stewart's family. Stewart had no money, he said.

The sister's letter found its way to Madeline. She read it, tears in her eyes. It told Madeline much more than its brief story of illness and poverty and wonder why Gene had not written home for so long. It told of motherly love, sisterly love, brotherly love—dear family ties that had not been broken. It spoke of pride in this El Capitan brother who had become famous. It was signed “your loving sister Letty.”

Not improbably, Madeline revolved in mind, this letter was one reason for Stewart's headstrong, long-continued abasement. It had been received too late—after he had squandered the money that would have meant so much to mother and sister. Be that as it might, Madeline immediately sent a bank-draft to Stewart's sister with a letter explaining that the money was drawn in advance on Stewart's salary. This done, she impulsively determined to go to Chiricahua herself.

The horseback-rides Madeline had taken to this little Arizona hamlet had tried her endurance to the utmost; but the journey by automobile, except for some rocky bits of road and sandy stretches, was comfortable, and a matter of only a few hours. The big touring-car was still a kind of seventh wonder to the Mexicans and cowboys; not that automobiles were very new and strange, but because this one was such an enormous machine and capable of greater speed than an express-train. The chauffeur who had arrived with the car found his situation among the jealous cowboys somewhat far removed from a bed of roses. He had been induced to remain long enough to teach the operating and mechanical technique of the car. And choice fell upon Link Stevens, for the simple reason that of all the cowboys he was the only one with any knack for mechanics. Now Link had been a hard-riding, hard-driving cowboy, and that winter he had sustained an injury to his leg, caused by a bad fall, and was unable to sit his horse. This had been gall and wormwood to him. But when the big white automobile came and he was elected to drive it, life was once more worth living for him. But all the other cowboys regarded Link and his machine as some correlated species of demon. They were deathly afraid of both.

It was for this reason that Nels, when Madeline asked him to accompany her to Chiricahua, replied, reluctantly, that he would rather follow on his horse. However, she prevailed over his hesitancy, and with Florence also in the car they set out. For miles and miles the valley road was smooth, hard-packed, and slightly downhill. And when speeding was perfectly safe, Madeline was not averse to it. The grassy plain sailed backward in gray sheets, and the little dot in the valley grew larger and larger. From time to time Link glanced round at unhappy Nels, whose eyes were wild and whose hands clutched his seat. While the car was crossing the sandy and rocky places, going slowly, Nels appeared to breathe easier. And when it stopped in the wide, dusty street of Chiricahua Nels gladly tumbled out.

“Nels, we shall wait here in the car while you find Stewart,” said Madeline.

“Miss Hammond, I reckon Gene'll run when he sees us, if he's able to run,” replied Nels. “Wal, I'll go find him an' make up my mind then what we'd better do.”

Nels crossed the railroad track and disappeared behind the low, flat houses. After a little time he reappeared and hurried up to the car. Madeline felt his gray gaze searching her face.

“Miss Hammond, I found him,” said Nels. “He was sleepin'. I woke him. He's sober an' not bad hurt; but I don't believe you ought to see him. Mebbe Florence—”

“Nels, I want to see him myself. Why not? What did he say when you told him I was here?”

“Shore I didn't tell him that. I jest says, 'Hullo, Gene!' an' he says, 'My Gawd! Nels! mebbe I ain't glad to see a human bein'.' He asked me who was with me, an' I told him Link an' some friends. I said I'd fetch them in. He hollered at thet. But I went, anyway. Now, if you really will see him, Miss Hammond, it's a good chance. But shore it's a touchy matter, an' you'll be some sick at sight of him. He's layin' in a Greaser hole over here. Likely the Greasers hev been kind to him. But they're shore a poor lot.”

Madeline did not hesitate a moment.

“Thank you, Nels. Take me at once. Come, Florence.”

They left the car, now surrounded by gaping-eyed Mexican children, and crossed the dusty space to a narrow lane between red adobe walls. Passing by several houses, Nels stopped at the door of what appeared to be an alleyway leading back. It was filthy.

“He's in there, around thet first corner. It's a patio, open an' sunny. An', Miss Hammond, if you don't mind, I'll wait here for you. I reckon Gene wouldn't like any fellers around when he sees you girls.”

It was that which made Madeline hesitate then and go forward slowly. She had given no thought at all to what Stewart might feel when suddenly surprised by her presence.

“Florence, you wait also,” said Madeline, at the doorway, and turned in alone.

And she had stepped into a broken-down patio littered with alfalfa straw and debris, all clear in the sunlight. Upon a bench, back toward her, sat a man looking out through the rents in the broken wall. He had not heard her. The place was not quite so filthy and stifling as the passages Madeline had come through to get there. Then she saw that it had been used as a corral. A rat ran boldly across the dirt floor. The air swarmed with flies, which the man brushed at with weary hand. Madeline did not recognize Stewart. The side of his face exposed to her gaze was black, bruised, bearded. His clothes were ragged and soiled. There were bits of alfalfa in his hair. His shoulders sagged. He made a wretched and hopeless figure sitting there. Madeline divined something of why Nels shrank from being present.

“Mr. Stewart. It is I, Miss Hammond, come to see you,” she said.

He grew suddenly perfectly motionless, as if he had been changed to stone. She repeated her greeting.

His body jerked. He moved violently as if instinctively to turn and face this intruder; but a more violent movement checked him.

Madeline waited. How singular that this ruined cowboy had pride which kept him from showing his face! And was it not shame more than pride?

“Mr. Stewart, I have come to talk with you, if you will let me.”

“Go away,” he muttered.

“Mr. Stewart!” she began, with involuntary hauteur. But instantly she corrected herself, became deliberate and cool, for she saw that she might fail to be even heard by this man. “I have come to help you. Will you let me?”

“For God's sake! You—you—” he choked over the words. “Go away!”

“Stewart, perhaps it was for God's sake that I came,” said Madeline, gently. “Surely it was for yours—and your sister's—” Madeline bit her tongue, for she had not meant to betray her knowledge of Letty.

He groaned, and, staggering up to the broken wall, he leaned there with his face hidden. Madeline reflected that perhaps the slip of speech had been well.

“Stewart, please let me say what I have to say?”

He was silent. And she gathered courage and inspiration.

“Stillwell is deeply hurt, deeply grieved that he could not turn you back from this—this fatal course. My brother is also. They wanted to help you. And so do I. I have come, thinking somehow I might succeed where they have failed. Nels brought your sister's letter. I—I read it. I was only the more determined to try to help you, and indirectly help your mother and Letty. Stewart, we want you to come to the ranch. Stillwell needs you for his foreman. The position is open to you, and you can name your salary. Both Al and Stillwell are worried about Don Carlos, the vaqueros, and the raids down along the border. My cowboys are without a capable leader. Will you come?”

“No,” he answered.

“But Stillwell wants you so badly.”

“No.”

“Stewart, I want you to come.”

“No.”

His replies had been hoarse, loud, furious. They disconcerted Madeline, and she paused, trying to think of a way to proceed. Stewart staggered away from the wall, and, falling upon the bench, he hid his face in his hands. All his motions, like his speech, had been violent.

“Will you please go away?” he asked.

“Stewart, certainly I cannot remain here longer if you insist upon my going. But why not listen to me when I want so much to help you? Why?”

“I'm a damned blackguard,” he burst out. “But I was a gentleman once, and I'm not so low that I can stand for you seeing me here.”

“When I made up my mind to help you I made it up to see you wherever you were. Stewart, come away, come back with us to the ranch. You are in a bad condition now. Everything looks black to you. But that will pass. When you are among friends again you will get well. You will be your old self. The very fact that you were once a gentleman, that you come of good family, makes you owe so much more to yourself. Why, Stewart, think how young you are! It is a shame to waste your life. Come back with me.”

“Miss Hammond, this was my last plunge,” he replied, despondently. “It's too late.”

“Oh no, it is not so bad as that.”

“It's too late.”

“At least make an effort, Stewart. Try!”

“No. There's no use. I'm done for. Please leave me—thank you for—”

He had been savage, then sullen, and now he was grim. Madeline all but lost power to resist his strange, deadly, cold finality. No doubt he knew he was doomed. Yet something halted her—held her even as she took a backward step. And she became conscious of a subtle change in her own feeling. She had come into that squalid hole, Madeline Hammond, earnest enough, kind enough in her own intentions; but she had been almost imperious—a woman habitually, proudly used to being obeyed. She divined that all the pride, blue blood, wealth, culture, distinction, all the impersonal condescending persuasion, all the fatuous philanthropy on earth would not avail to turn this man a single hair's-breadth from his downward career to destruction. Her coming had terribly augmented his bitter hate of himself. She was going to fail to help him. She experienced a sensation of impotence that amounted almost to distress. The situation assumed a tragic keenness. She had set forth to reverse the tide of a wild cowboy's fortunes; she faced the swift wasting of his life, the damnation of his soul. The subtle consciousness of change in her was the birth of that faith she had revered in Stillwell. And all at once she became merely a woman, brave and sweet and indomitable.

“Stewart, look at me,” she said.

He shuddered. She advanced and laid a hand on his bent shoulder. Under the light touch he appeared to sink.

“Look at me,” she repeated.

But he could not lift his head. He was abject, crushed. He dared not show his swollen, blackened face. His fierce, cramped posture revealed more than his features might have shown; it betrayed the torturing shame of a man of pride and passion, a man who had been confronted in his degradation by the woman he had dared to enshrine in his heart. It betrayed his love.

“Listen, then,” went on Madeline, and her voice was unsteady. “Listen to me, Stewart. The greatest men are those who have fallen deepest into the mire, sinned most, suffered most, and then have fought their evil natures and conquered. I think you can shake off this desperate mood and be a man.”

“No!” he cried.

“Listen to me again. Somehow I know you're worthy of Stillwell's love. Will you come back with us—for his sake?”

“No. It's too late, I tell you.”

“Stewart, the best thing in life is faith in human nature. I have faith in you. I believe you are worth it.”

“You're only kind and good—saying that. You can't mean it.”

“I mean it with all my heart,” she replied, a sudden rich warmth suffusing her body as she saw the first sign of his softening. “Will you come back—if not for your own sake or Stillwell's—then for mine?”

“What am I to such a woman as you?”

“A man in trouble, Stewart. But I have come to help you, to show my faith in you.”

“If I believed that I might try,” he said.

“Listen,” she began, softly, hurriedly. “My word is not lightly given. Let it prove my faith in you. Look at me now and say you will come.”

He heaved up his big frame as if trying to cast off a giant's burden, and then slowly he turned toward her. His face was a blotched and terrible thing. The physical brutalizing marks were there, and at that instant all that appeared human to Madeline was the dawning in dead, furnace-like eyes of a beautiful light.

“I'll come,” he whispered, huskily. “Give me a few days to straighten up, then I'll come.”

 

 

IX - The New Foreman

Toward the end of the week Stillwell informed Madeline that Stewart had arrived at the ranch and had taken up quarters with Nels.

“Gene's sick. He looks bad,” said the old cattleman. “He's so weak an' shaky he can't lift a cup. Nels says that Gene has hed some bad spells. A little liquor would straighten him up now. But Nels can't force him to drink a drop, an' has hed to sneak some liquor in his coffee. Wal, I think we'll pull Gene through. He's forgotten a lot. I was goin' to tell him what he did to me up at Rodeo. But I know if he'd believe it he'd be sicker than he is. Gene's losin' his mind, or he's got somethin' powerful strange on it.”

From that time Stillwell, who evidently found Madeline his most sympathetic listener, unburdened himself daily of his hopes and fears and conjectures.

Stewart was really ill. It became necessary to send Link Stevens for a physician. Then Stewart began slowly to mend and presently was able to get up and about. Stillwell said the cowboy lacked interest and seemed to be a broken man. This statement, however, the old cattleman modified as Stewart continued to improve. Then presently it was a good augury of Stewart's progress that the cowboys once more took up the teasing relation which had been characteristic of them before his illness. A cowboy was indeed out of sorts when he could not vent his peculiar humor on somebody or something. Stewart had evidently become a broad target for their badinage.

“Wal, the boys are sure after Gene,” said Stillwell, with his huge smile. “Joshin' him all the time about how he sits around an' hangs around an' loafs around jest to get a glimpse of you, Miss Majesty. Sure all the boys hev a pretty bad case over their pretty boss, but none of them is a marker to Gene. He's got it so bad, Miss Majesty, thet he actooly don't know they are joshin' him. It's the amazin'est strange thing I ever seen. Why, Gene was always a feller thet you could josh. An' he'd laugh an' get back at you. But he was never before deaf to talk, an' there was a certain limit no feller cared to cross with him. Now he takes every word an' smiles dreamy like, an' jest looks an' looks. Why, he's beginnin' to make me tired. He'll never run thet bunch of cowboys if he doesn't wake up quick.”

Madeline smiled her amusement and expressed a belief that Stillwell wanted too much in such short time from a man who had done body and mind a grievous injury.

It had been impossible for Madeline to fail to observe Stewart's singular behavior. She never went out to take her customary walks and rides without seeing him somewhere in the distance. She was aware that he watched for her and avoided meeting her. When she sat on the porch during the afternoon or at sunset Stewart could always be descried at some point near. He idled listlessly in the sun, lounged on the porch of his bunk-house, sat whittling the top bar of the corral fence, and always it seemed to Madeline he was watching her. Once, while going the rounds with her gardener, she encountered Stewart and greeted him kindly. He said little, but he was not embarrassed. She did not recognize in his face any feature that she remembered. In fact, on each of the few occasions when she had met Stewart he had looked so different that she had no consistent idea of his facial appearance. He was now pale, haggard, drawn. His eyes held a shadow through which shone a soft, subdued light; and, once having observed this, Madeline fancied it was like the light in Majesty's eyes, in the dumb, worshiping eyes of her favorite stag-hound. She told Stewart that she hoped he would soon be in the saddle again, and passed on her way.

That Stewart loved her Madeline could not help but see. She endeavored to think of him as one of the many who, she was glad to know, liked her. But she could not regulate her thoughts to fit the order her intelligence prescribed. Thought of Stewart dissociated itself from thought of the other cowboys. When she discovered this she felt a little surprise and annoyance. Then she interrogated herself, and concluded that it was not that Stewart was so different from his comrades, but that circumstances made him stand out from them. She recalled her meeting with him that night when he had tried to force her to marry him. This was unforgettable in itself. She called subsequent mention of him, and found it had been peculiarly memorable. The man and his actions seemed to hinge on events. Lastly, the fact standing clear of all others in its relation to her interest was that he had been almost ruined, almost lost, and she had saved him. That alone was sufficient to explain why she thought of him differently. She had befriended, uplifted the other cowboys; she had saved Stewart's life. To be sure, he had been a ruffian, but a woman could not save the life of even a ruffian without remembering it with gladness. Madeline at length decided her interest in Stewart was natural, and that her deeper feeling was pity. Perhaps the interest had been forced from her; however, she gave the pity as she gave everything.

Stewart recovered his strength, though not in time to ride at the spring round-up; and Stillwell discussed with Madeline the advisability of making the cowboy his foreman.

“Wal, Gene seems to be gettin' along,” said Stillwell. “But he ain't like his old self. I think more of him at thet. But where's his spirit? The boys'd ride rough-shod all over him. Mebbe I'd do best to wait longer now, as the slack season is on. All the same, if those vaquero of Don Carlos's don't lay low I'll send Gene over there. Thet'll wake him up.”

A few days afterward Stillwell came to Madeline, rubbing his big hands in satisfaction and wearing a grin that was enormous.

“Miss Majesty, I reckon before this I've said things was amazin' strange. But now Gene Stewart has gone an' done it! Listen to me. Them Greasers down on our slope hev been gettin' prosperous. They're growin' like bad weeds. An' they got a new padre—the little old feller from El Cajon, Padre Marcos. Wal, this was all right, all the boys thought, except Gene. An' he got blacker 'n thunder an' roared round like a dehorned bull. I was sure glad to see he could get mad again. Then Gene haids down the slope fer the church. Nels an' me follered him, thinkin' he might hev been took sudden with a crazy spell or somethin'. He hasn't never been jest right yet since he left off drinkin'. Wal, we run into him comin' out of the church. We never was so dumfounded in our lives. Gene was crazy, all right—he sure hed a spell. But it was the kind of a spell he hed thet paralyzed us. He ran past us like a streak, an' we follered. We couldn't ketch him. We heerd him laugh—the strangest laugh I ever heerd! You'd thought the feller was suddenly made a king. He was like thet feller who was tied in a bunyin'-sack an' throwed into the sea, an' cut his way out, an' swam to the island where the treasures was, an' stood up yellin', 'The world is mine.' Wal, when we got up to his bunk-house he was gone. He didn't come back all day an' all night. Frankie Slade, who has a sharp tongue, says Gene hed gone crazy for liquor an' thet was his finish. Nels was some worried. An' I was sick.

“Wal' this mawnin' I went over to Nels's bunk. Some of the fellers was there, all speculatin' about Gene. Then big as life Gene struts round the corner. He wasn't the same Gene. His face was pale an' his eyes burned like fire. He had thet old mockin', cool smile, an' somethin' besides thet I couldn't understand. Frankie Slade up an' made a remark—no wuss than he'd been makin' fer days—an' Gene tumbled him out of his chair, punched him good, walked all over him. Frankie wasn't hurt so much as he was bewildered. 'Gene,' he says, 'what the hell struck you?' An' Gene says, kind of sweet like, 'Frankie, you may be a nice feller when you're alone, but your talk's offensive to a gentleman.'

“After thet what was said to Gene was with a nice smile. Now, Miss Majesty, it's beyond me what to allow for Gene's sudden change. First off, I thought Padre Marcos had converted him. I actooly thought thet. But I reckon it's only Gene Stewart come back—the old Gene Stewart an' some. Thet's all I care about. I'm rememberin' how I once told you thet Gene was the last of the cowboys. Perhaps I should hev said he's the last of my kind of cowboys. Wal, Miss Majesty, you'll be apprecatin' of what I meant from now on.”

It was also beyond Madeline to account for Gene Stewart's antics, and, making allowance for the old cattleman's fancy, she did not weigh his remarks very heavily. She guessed why Stewart might have been angry at the presence of Padre Marcos. Madeline supposed that it was rather an unusual circumstance for a cowboy to be converted to religious belief. But it was possible. And she knew that religious fervor often manifested itself in extremes of feeling and action. Most likely, in Stewart's case, his real manner had been both misunderstood and exaggerated. However, Madeline had a curious desire, which she did not wholly admit to herself, to see the cowboy and make her own deductions.

The opportunity did not present itself for nearly two weeks. Stewart had taken up his duties as foreman, and his activities were ceaseless. He was absent most of the time, ranging down toward the Mexican line. When he returned Stillwell sent for him.

This was late in the afternoon of a day in the middle of April. Alfred and Florence were with Madeline on the porch. They saw the cowboy turn his horse over to one of the Mexican boys at the corral and then come with weary step up to the house, beating the dust out of his gauntlets. Little streams of gray sand trickled from his sombrero as he removed it and bowed to the women.

Madeline saw the man she remembered, but with a singularly different aspect. His skin was brown; his eyes were piercing and dark and steady; he carried himself erect; he seemed preoccupied, and there was not a trace of embarrassment in his manner.

“Wal, Gene, I'm sure glad to see you,” Stillwell was saying. “Where do you hail from?”

“Guadaloupe Canyon,” replied the cowboy.

Stillwell whistled.

“Way down there! You don't mean you follered them hoss tracks thet far?”

“All the way from Don Carlos's rancho across the Mexican line. I took Nick Steele with me. Nick is the best tracker in the outfit. This trail we were on led along the foothill valleys. First we thought whoever made it was hunting for water. But they passed two ranches without watering. At Seaton's Wash they dug for water. Here they met a pack-train of burros that came down the mountain trail. The burros were heavily loaded. Horse and burro tracks struck south from Seaton's to the old California emigrant road. We followed the trail through Guadelope Canyon and across the border. On the way back we stopped at Slaughter's ranch, where the United States cavalry are camping. There we met foresters from the Peloncillo forest reserve. If these fellows knew anything they kept it to themselves. So we hit the trail home.”

“Wal, I reckon you know enough?” inquired Stillwell, slowly.

“I reckon,” replied Stewart.

“Wal, out with it, then,” said Stillwell, gruffly. “Miss Hammond can't be kept in the dark much longer. Make your report to her.”

The cowboy shifted his dark gaze to Madeline. He was cool and slow.

“We're losing a few cattle on the open range. Night-drives by the vaqueros. Some of these cattle are driven across the valley, others up to the foothills. So far as I can find out no cattle are being driven south. So this raiding is a blind to fool the cowboys. Don Carlos is a Mexican rebel. He located his rancho here a few years ago and pretended to raise cattle. All that time he has been smuggling arms and ammunition across the border. He was for Madero against Diaz. Now he is against Madero because he and all the rebels think Madero failed to keep his promises. There will be another revolution. And all the arms go from the States across the border. Those burros I told about were packed with contraband goods.”

“That's a matter for the United States cavalry. They are patrolling the border,” said Alfred.

“They can't stop the smuggling of arms, not down in that wild corner,” replied Stewart.

“What is my—my duty? What has it to do with me?” inquired Madeline, somewhat perturbed.

“Wal, Miss Majesty, I reckon it hasn't nothing to do with you,” put in Stillwell. “Thet's my bizness an' Stewart's. But I jest wanted you to know. There might be some trouble follerin' my orders.”

“Your orders?”

“I want to send Stewart over to fire Don Carlos an' his vaqueros off the range. They've got to go. Don Carlos is breakin' the law of the United States, an' doin' it on our property an' with our hosses. Hev I your permission, Miss Hammond?”

“Why, assuredly you have! Stillwell, you know what to do. Alfred, what do you think best?”

“It'll make trouble, Majesty, but it's got to be done,” replied Alfred. “Here you have a crowd of Eastern friends due next month. We want the range to ourselves then. But, Stillwell, if you drive those vaqueros off, won't they hang around in the foothills? I declare they are a bad lot.”

Stillwell's mind was not at ease. He paced the porch with a frown clouding his brow.

“Gene, I reckon you got this Greaser deal figgered better'n me,” said Stillwell. “Now what do you say?”

“He'll have to be forced off,” replied Stewart, quietly. “The Don's pretty slick, but his vaqueros are bad actors. It's just this way. Nels said the other day to me, 'Gene, I haven't packed a gun for years until lately, and it feels good whenever I meet any of those strange Greasers.' You see, Stillwell, Don Carlos has vaqueros coming and going all the time. They're guerrilla bands, that's all. And they're getting uglier. There have been several shooting-scrapes lately. A rancher named White, who lives up the valley, was badly hurt. It's only a matter of time till something stirs up the boys here. Stillwell, you know Nels and Monty and Nick.”

“Sure I know 'em. An' you're not mentionin' one more particular cowboy in my outfit,” said Stillwell, with a dry chuckle and a glance at Stewart.

Madeline divined the covert meaning, and a slight chill passed over her, as if a cold wind had blown in from the hills.

“Stewart, I see you carry a gun,” she said, pointing to a black handle protruding from a sheath swinging low along his leather chaps.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Why do you carry it?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, “it's not a pretty gun—and it's heavy.” She caught the inference. The gun was not an ornament. His keen, steady, dark gaze caused her vague alarm. What had once seemed cool and audacious about this cowboy was now cold and powerful and mystical. Both her instinct and her intelligence realized the steel fiber of the man's nature. As she was his employer, she had the right to demand that he should not do what was so chillingly manifest that he might do. But Madeline could not demand. She felt curiously young and weak, and the five months of Western life were as if they had never been. She now had to do with a question involving human life. And the value she placed upon human life and its spiritual significance was a matter far from her cowboy's thoughts. A strange idea flashed up. Did she place too much value upon all human life? She checked that, wondering, almost horrified at herself. And then her intuition told her that she possessed a far stronger power to move these primitive men than any woman's stern rule or order.

“Stewart, I do not fully understand what you hint that Nels and his comrades might do. Please be frank with me. Do you mean Nels would shoot upon little provocation?”

“Miss Hammond, as far as Nels is concerned, shooting is now just a matter of his meeting Don Carlos's vaqueros. It's wonderful what Nels has stood from them, considering the Mexicans he's already killed.”

“Already killed! Stewart, you are not in earnest?” cried Madeline, shocked.

“I am. Nels has seen hard life along the Arizona border. He likes peace as well as any man. But a few years of that doesn't change what the early days made of him. As for Nick Steele and Monty, they're just bad men, and looking for trouble.”

“How about yourself, Stewart? Stillwell's remark was not lost upon me,” said Madeline, prompted by curiosity.

Stewart did not reply. He looked at her in respectful silence. In her keen earnestness Madeline saw beneath his cool exterior and was all the more baffled. Was there a slight, inscrutable, mocking light in his eyes, or was it only her imagination? However, the cowboy's face was as hard as flint.

“Stewart, I have come to love my ranch,” said Madeline, slowly, “and I care a great deal for my—my cowboys. It would be dreadful if they were to kill anybody, or especially if one of them should be killed.”

“Miss Hammond, you've changed things considerable out here, but you can't change these men. All that's needed to start them is a little trouble. And this Mexican revolution is bound to make rough times along some of the wilder passes across the border. We're in line, that's all. And the boys are getting stirred up.”

“Very well, then, I must accept the inevitable. I am facing a rough time. And some of my cowboys cannot be checked much longer. But, Stewart, whatever you have been in the past, you have changed.” She smiled at him, and her voice was singularly sweet and rich. “Stillwell has so often referred to you as the last of his kind of cowboy. I have just a faint idea of what a wild life you have led. Perhaps that fits you to be a leader of such rough men. I am no judge of what a leader should do in this crisis. My cowboys are entailing risk in my employ; my property is not safe; perhaps my life even might be endangered. I want to rely upon you, since Stillwell believes, and I, too, that you are the man for this place. I shall give you no orders. But is it too much to ask that you be my kind of a cowboy?”

Madeline remembered Stewart's former brutality and shame and abject worship, and she measured the great change in him by the contrast afforded now in his dark, changeless, intent face.

“Miss Hammond, what kind of a cowboy is that?” he asked.

“I—I don't exactly know. It is that kind which I feel you might be. But I do know that in the problem at hand I want your actions to be governed by reason, not passion. Human life is not for any man to sacrifice unless in self-defense or in protecting those dependent upon him. What Stillwell and you hinted makes me afraid of Nels and Nick Steele and Monty. Cannot they be controlled? I want to feel that they will not go gunning for Don Carlos's men. I want to avoid all violence. And yet when my guests come I want to feel that they will be safe from danger or fright or even annoyance. May I not rely wholly upon you, Stewart? Just trust you to manage these obstreperous cowboys and protect my property and Alfred's, and take care of us—of me, until this revolution is ended? I have never had a day's worry since I bought the ranch. It is not that I want to shirk my responsibilities; it is that I like being happy. May I put so much faith in you?”

“I hope so, Miss Hammond,” replied Stewart. It was an instant response, but none the less fraught with consciousness of responsibility. He waited a moment, and then, as neither Stillwell nor Madeline offered further speech, he bowed and turned down the path, his long spurs clinking in the gravel.

“Wal, wal,” exclaimed Stillwell, “thet's no little job you give him, Miss Majesty.”

“It was a woman's cunning, Stillwell,” said Alfred. “My sister used to be a wonder at getting her own way when we were kids. Just a smile or two, a few sweet words or turns of thought, and she had what she wanted.”

“Al, what a character to give me!” protested Madeline. “Indeed, I was deeply in earnest with Stewart. I do not understand just why, but I trust him. He seems like iron and steel. Then I was a little frightened at the prospect of trouble with the vaqueros. Both you and Stillwell have influenced me to look upon Stewart as invaluable. I thought it best to confess my utter helplessness and to look to him for support.”

“Majesty, whatever actuated you, it was a stroke of diplomacy,” replied her brother. “Stewart has got good stuff in him. He was down and out. Well, he's made a game fight, and it looks as if he'd win. Trusting him, giving him responsibility, relying upon him, was the surest way to strengthen his hold upon himself. Then that little touch of sentiment about being your kind of cowboy and protecting you—well, if Gene Stewart doesn't develop into an Argus-eyed knight I'll say I don't know cowboys. But, Majesty, remember, he's a composite of tiger breed and forked lightning, and don't imagine he has failed you if he gets into a fight.

“I'll sure tell you what Gene Stewart will do,” said Florence. “Don't I know cowboys? Why, they used to take me up on their horses when I was a baby. Gene Stewart will be the kind of cowboy your sister said he might be, whatever that is. She may not know and we may not guess, but he knows.”

“Wal, Flo, there you hit plumb center,” replied the old cattleman. “An' I couldn't be gladder if he was my own son.”

Good Readings: Quotes of St. John of Cross (translated into English)

1. “Strive to preserve your heart in peace; let no event of this world disturb it.”
2. “The endurance of darkness is the preparation for great light.”
3. “Contemplation is nothing else but a secret, peaceful, and loving infusion of God, which if admitted, will set the soul on fire with the Spirit of love.”
4. “In tribulation immediately draw near to God with confidence, and you will receive strength, enlightenment, and instruction.”
5. “Take God for your spouse and friend and walk with him continually, and you will not sin and will learn to love, and the things you must do will work out prosperously for you.”
6. “It is great wisdom to know how to be silent and to look at neither the remarks, nor the deeds, nor the lives of others.”
7. “To saints, their very slumber is a prayer.”
8. “In the evening of life, we will be judged on love alone.”
9. “If a man wishes to be sure of the road he treads on, he must close his eyes and walk in the dark.”
10. “Love consists not in feeling great things but in having great detachment and in suffering for the Beloved.”

Tuesday's Serial: “Le Fantôme de l'Opéra” by Gaston Leroux (in French) - the end.

XXVII - LA FIN DES AMOURS DU FANTOME

C'est ici que se termine le récit écrit que m'a laissé le Persan.

Malgré l'horreur d'une situation qui semblait définitivement les vouer à la mort, M. de Chagny et son compagnon furent sauvés par le dévouement sublime de Christine Daaé. Et je tiens tout le reste de l'aventure de la bouche du daroga lui-même.

Quand j'allai le voir, il habitait toujours son petit appartement de la rue de Rivoli, en face des Tuileries. Il était bien malade et il ne fallait rien moins que toute mon ardeur de reporter-historien au service de la vérité pour le décider à revivre avec moi l'incroyable drame. C'était toujours son vieux et fidèle domestique Darius qui le servait et me conduisait auprès de lui. Le daroga me recevait au coin de la fenêtre qui regarde le jardin, assis dans un vaste fauteuil où il essayait de redresser un torse qui n'avait pas dû être sans beauté. Notre Persan avait encore ses yeux magnifiques, mais son pauvre visage était bien fatigué. Il avait fait raser entièrement sa tête qu'il couvrait à l'ordinaire d'un bonnet d'astrakan; il était habillé d'une vaste houppelande très simple dans les manches de laquelle il s'amusait inconsciemment à tourner les pouces, mais son esprit était resté fort lucide.

Il ne pouvait se rappeler les affres anciennes sans être repris d'une certaine fièvre et c'est par bribes que je lui arrachai la fin surprenante de cette étrange histoire. Parfois, il se faisait prier longtemps pour répondre à mes questions, et parfois exalté par ses souvenirs il évoquait spontanément devant moi, avec un relief saisissant, l'image effroyable d'Erik et les terribles heures que M. de Chagny et lui avaient vécues dans la demeure du Lac.

Il fallait voir le frémissement qui l'agitait quand il me dépeignait son réveil dans la pénombre inquiétante de la chambre Louis-Philippe... après le drame des eaux... Et voici la fin de cette terrible histoire, telle qu'il me l'a racontée de façon à compléter le récit écrit qu'il avait bien voulu me confier:

En ouvrant les yeux, le daroga s'était vu étendu sur un lit... M. de Chagny était couché sur un canapé, à côté de l'armoire à glace. Un ange et un démon veillaient sur eux...

Après les mirages et illusions de la chambre des supplices, la précision des détails bourgeois de cette petite pièce tranquille, semblait avoir été encore inventée dans le dessein de dérouter l'esprit du mortel assez téméraire pour s'égarer dans ce domaine du cauchemar vivant. Ce lit-bateau, ces chaises d'acajou ciré, cette commode et ces cuivres, le soin avec lequel ces petits carrés de dentelle au crochet étaient placés sur le dos des fauteuils, la pendule et de chaque côté de la cheminée les petits coffrets à l'apparence si inoffensive... enfin, cette étagère garnie de coquillages, de pelotes rouges pour les épingles, de bateaux en nacre et d'un énorme œuf d'autruche... le tout éclairé discrètement par une lampe à abat-jour posée sur un guéridon... tout ce mobilier qui était d'une laideur ménagère touchante, si paisible, si raisonnable «au fond des caves de l'Opéra», déconcertait l'imagination plus que toutes les fantasmagories passées.

Et l'ombre de l'homme au masque, dans ce petit cadre vieillot, précis et propret, n'en apparaissait que plus formidable. Elle se courba jusqu'à l'oreille du Persan et lui dit à voix basse:

—Ça va mieux, daroga?... Tu regardes mon mobilier?... C'est tout ce qui me reste de ma pauvre misérable mère...

Il lui dit encore des choses qu'il ne se rappelait plus; mais—et cela lui paraissait bien singulier—le Persan avait le souvenir précis que, pendant cette vision surannée de la chambre Louis-Philippe, seul Erik parlait. Christine Daaé ne disait pas un mot; elle se déplaçait sans bruit et comme une Sœur de charité qui aurait fait vœu de silence... Elle apportait dans une tasse un cordial... ou du thé fumant... L'homme au masque la lui prenait des mains et la tendait au Persan.

Quant à M. de Chagny, il dormait...

Erik dit en versant un peu de rhum dans la tasse du daroga et en lui montrant le vicomte étendu:

—Il est revenu à lui bien avant que nous puissions savoir si vous seriez encore vivant un jour, daroga. Il va très bien... Il dort... Il ne faut pas le réveiller...

Un instant, Erik quitta la chambre et le Persan, se soulevant sur son coude, regarda autour de lui... Il aperçut, assise au coin de la cheminée, la silhouette blanche de Christine Daaé. Il lui adressa la parole... il l'appela... mais il était encore très faible et il retomba sur l'oreiller... Christine vint à lui, lui posa la main sur le front, puis s'éloigna... Et le Persan se rappela qu'alors, en s'en allant, elle n'eut pas un regard pour M. de Chagny qui, à côté, il est vrai, bien tranquillement dormait... et elle retourna s'asseoir dans son fauteuil, au coin de la cheminée, silencieuse comme une Sœur de charité qui a fait vœu de silence...

Erik revint avec de petits flacons qu'il déposa sur la cheminée. Et tout bas encore, pour ne pas éveiller M. de Chagny, il dit au Persan, après s'être assis à son chevet et lui avoir tâté le pouls:

—Maintenant, vous êtes sauvés tous les deux. Et je vais tantôt vous reconduire sur le dessus de la terre, pour faire plaisir à ma femme.

Sur quoi il se leva, sans autre explication, et disparut encore.

Le Persan regardait maintenant le profil tranquille de Christine Daaé sous la lampe. Elle lisait dans un tout petit livre à tranche dorée comme on en voit aux livres religieux. L'Imitation a de ces éditions-là. Et le Persan avait encore dans l'oreille le ton naturel avec lequel l'autre avait dit: «Pour faire plaisir à ma femme...»

Tout doucement, le daroga appela encore, mais Christine devait lire très loin, car elle n'entendit pas...

Erik revint... fit boire au daroga une potion, après lui avoir recommandé de ne plus adresser une parole à «sa femme» ni à personne, parce que cela pouvait être très dangereux pour la santé de tout le monde.

À partir de ce moment, le Persan se souvient encore de l'ombre noire d'Erik et de la silhouette blanche de Christine qui glissaient toujours en silence à travers la chambre, se penchaient au-dessus de lui et au-dessus de M. de Chagny. Le Persan était encore très faible et le moindre bruit, la porte de l'armoire à glace qui s'ouvrait en grinçant, par exemple, lui faisait mal à la tête... et puis il s'endormit comme M. de Chagny.

Cette fois, il ne devait plus se réveiller que chez lui, soigné par son fidèle Darius, qui lui apprit qu'on l'avait, la nuit précédente, trouvé contre la porte de son appartement, où il avait dû être transporté par un inconnu, lequel avait eu soin de sonner avant de s'éloigner.

Aussitôt que le daroga eut recouvré ses forces et sa responsabilité, il envoya demander des nouvelles du vicomte au domicile du comte Philippe.

Il lui fut répondu que le jeune homme n'avait pas reparu et que le comte Philippe était mort. On avait trouvé son cadavre sur la berge du Lac de l'Opéra, du côté de la rue Scribe. Le Persan se rappela la messe funèbre à laquelle il avait assisté derrière le mur de la chambre des miroirs et il ne douta plus du crime ni du criminel. Sans peine, hélas! connaissant Erik, il reconstitua le drame. Après avoir cru que son frère avait enlevé Christine Daaé, Philippe s'était précipité à sa poursuite sur cette route de Bruxelles, où il savait que tout était préparé pour une telle aventure. N'y ayant point rencontré les jeunes gens, il était revenu à l'Opéra, s'était rappelé les étranges confidences de Raoul sur son fantastique rival, avait appris que le vicomte avait tout tenté pour pénétrer dans les dessous du théâtre et enfin qu'il avait disparu, laissant son chapeau dans la loge de la diva, à côté d'une boîte de pistolets. Et le comte, qui ne doutait plus de la folie de son frère, s'était à son tour lancé dans cet infernal labyrinthe souterrain. En fallait-il davantage, aux yeux du Persan, pour que l'on retrouvât le cadavre du comte sur la berge du Lac, où veillait le chant de la sirène, la sirène d'Erik, cette concierge du Lac des Morts?

Aussi le Persan n'hésita pas. Épouvanté de ce nouveau forfait, ne pouvant rester dans l'incertitude où il se trouvait relativement au sort définitif du vicomte et de Christine Daaé, il se décida à tout dire à la justice.

Or l'instruction de l'affaire avait été confiée à M. le juge Faure et c'est chez lui qu'il s'en alla frapper. On se doute de quelle sorte un esprit sceptique, terre à terre, superficiel (je le dis comme je le pense) et nullement préparé à une telle confidence, reçut la déposition du daroga. Celui-ci fut traité comme un fou.

Le Persan, désespérant de se faire jamais entendre, s'était mis alors à écrire. Puisque la justice ne voulait pas de son témoignage, la presse s'en emparerait peut-être, et il venait un soir de tracer la dernière ligne du récit que j'ai fidèlement rapporté ici quand son domestique Darius lui annonça un étranger qui n'avait point dit son nom, dont il était impossible de voir le visage et qui avait déclaré simplement qu'il ne quitterait la place qu'après avoir parlé au daroga.

Le Persan, pressentant immédiatement la personnalité de ce singulier visiteur, ordonna qu'on l'introduisît sur-le-champ.

Le daroga ne s'était pas trompé.

C'était le Fantôme! C'était Erik!

Il paraissait d'une faiblesse extrême et se retenait au mur comme s'il craignait de tomber... Ayant enlevé son chapeau, il montra un front d'une pâleur de cire. Le reste du visage était caché par le masque.

Le Persan s'était dressé devant lui.

—Assassin du comte Philippe, qu'as-tu fait de son frère et de Christine Daaé?

À cette apostrophe formidable, Erik chancela et garda un instant le silence, puis, s'étant traîné jusqu'à un fauteuil, il s'y laissa tomber en poussant un profond soupir. Et là, il dit à petites phrases, à petits mots, à court souffle:

—Daroga, ne me parle pas du comte Philippe... Il était mort... déjà... quand je suis sorti de ma maison... il était mort... déjà... quand... la sirène a chanté... c'est un accident... un triste... un... lamentablement triste... accident... Il était tombé bien maladroitement et simplement et naturellement dans le Lac!...

—Tu mens! s'écria le Persan.

Alors Erik courba la tête et dit:

—Je ne viens pas ici... pour te parler du comte Philippe... mais pour te dire que... je vais mourir...

—Où sont Raoul de Chagny et Christine Daaé?...

—Je vais mourir.

—Raoul de Chagny et Christine Daaé?

—... d'amour... daroga... je vais mourir d'amour... c'est comme cela... je l'aimais tant!... Et je l'aime encore, daroga, puisque j'en meurs, je te dis... Si tu savais comme elle était belle quand elle m'a permis de l'embrasser vivante, sur son salut éternel... C'était la première fois, daroga, la première fois, tu entends, que j'embrassais une femme... Oui, vivante, je l'ai embrassée vivante et elle était belle comme une morte?...

Le Persan s'était levé et il avait osé toucher Erik. Il lui secoua le bras.

—Me diras-tu enfin si elle est morte ou vivante?...

—Pourquoi me secoues-tu ainsi? répondit, Erik avec effort... Je te dis que c'est moi qui vais mourir... oui, je l'ai embrassée vivante...

—Et maintenant, elle est morte?

—Je te dis que je l'ai embrassée comme ça sur le front... et elle n'a point retiré son front de ma bouche!... Ah! c'est une honnête fille! Quant à être morte, je ne le pense pas, bien que cela ne me regarde plus... Non! non! elle n'est pas morte! Et il ne faudrait pas que j'apprenne que quelqu'un a touché un cheveu de sa tête! C'est une brave et honnête fille qui t'a sauvé la vie, par-dessus le marché, daroga, dans un moment où je n'aurais pas donné deux sous de ta peau de Persan. Au fond, personne ne s'occupait de toi. Pourquoi étais-tu là avec ce petit jeune homme? Tu allais mourir par-dessus le marché! Ma parole, elle me suppliait pour son petit jeune homme, mais je lui avais répondu que, puisqu'elle avait tourné le scorpion, j'étais devenu par cela même, et de sa bonne volonté, son fiancé et qu'elle n'avait pas besoin de deux fiancés, ce qui était assez juste; quant à toi, tu n'existais pas, tu n'existais déjà plus, je te le répète, et tu allais mourir avec l'autre fiancé!

Seulement, écoute bien, daroga, comme vous criiez comme des possédés à cause de l'eau, Christine est venue à moi, ses beaux grands yeux bleus ouverts et elle m'a juré, sur son salut éternel, qu'elle consentait à être ma femme vivante! Jusqu'alors, dans le fond de ses yeux, daroga, j'avais toujours vu ma femme morte; c'était la première fois que j'y voyais ma femme vivante. Elle était sincère, sur son salut éternel. Elle ne se tuerait point. Marché conclu. Une demi-minute plus tard, toutes les eaux étaient retournées au Lac, et je tirais ta langue, daroga, car j'ai bien cru, ma parole, que tu y resterais!... Enfin!... Voilà! C'était entendu! je devais vous reporter chez vous sur le dessus de la terre. Enfin, quand vous m'avez eu débarrassé le plancher de la chambre Louis-Philippe, j'y suis revenu, moi, tout seul.

—Qu'avais-tu fait du vicomte de Chagny? interrompit le Persan.

—Ah! tu comprends... celui-là, daroga, je n'allais pas comme ça le reporter tout de suite sur le dessus de la terre... C'était un otage... Mais je ne pouvais pas non plus le conserver dans la demeure du lac, à cause de Christine; alors je l'ai enfermé bien confortablement, je l'ai enchaîné proprement (le parfum de Mazenderan l'avait rendu mou comme une chiffe) dans le caveau des communards qui est dans la partie la plus déserte de la plus lointaine cave de l'Opéra, plus bas que le cinquième dessous, là où personne ne va jamais et d'où l'on ne peut se faire entendre de personne. J'étais bien tranquille et je suis revenu auprès de Christine. Elle m'attendait...

À cet endroit de son récit, il paraît que le Fantôme se leva si solennellement que le Persan qui avait repris sa place dans son fauteuil dut se lever, lui aussi, comme obéissant au même mouvement et sentant qu'il était impossible de rester assis dans un moment aussi solennel et même (m'a dit le Persan lui-même) il ôta, bien qu'il eût la tête rase, son bonnet d'astrakan.

—Oui! Elle m'attendait, reprit Erik, qui se prit à trembler comme une feuille, mais à trembler d'une vraie émotion solennelle... elle m'attendait toute droite, vivante, comme une vraie fiancée vivante, sur son salut éternel... Et quand je me suis avancé, plus timide qu'un petit enfant, elle ne s'est point sauvée... non, non... elle est restée... elle m'a attendu... je crois bien même, daroga, qu'elle a un peu... oh! pas beaucoup... mais un peu, comme une fiancée vivante, tendu son front... Et... et... je l'ai... embrassée!... Moi!... moi!... moi!... Et elle n'est pas morte!... Et elle est restée tout naturellement à côté de moi, après que je l'ai eu embrassée, comme ça... sur le front... Ab! que c'est bon, daroga, d'embrasser quelqu'un!... Tu ne peux pas savoir, toi!... Mais moi! moi!... Ma mère, daroga, ma pauvre misérable mère n'a jamais voulu que je l'embrasse... Elle se sauvait... en me jetant mon masque!... ni aucune femme!... jamais!... jamais!... Ah! ah! ah! Alors, n'est-ce pas?... d'un pareil bonheur, n'est-ce pas, j'ai pleuré. Et je suis tombé en pleurant à ses pieds... et j'ai embrassé ses pieds... ses petits pieds, en pleurant... Toi aussi tu pleures, daroga; et elle aussi pleurait... l'ange a pleuré!...

Comme il racontait ces choses, Erik sanglotait et le Persan, en effet, n'avait pu retenir ses larmes devant cet homme masqué qui, les épaules secouées, les mains à la poitrine, tantôt râlait de douleur et tantôt d'attendrissement.

—... Oh! daroga, j'ai senti ses larmes couler sur mon front à moi! à moi! à moi! Elles étaient chaudes... elles étaient douces! elles allaient partout sous mon masque, ses larmes! elles allaient se mêler à mes larmes dans mes yeux!... elles coulaient jusque dans ma bouche... Ah! ses larmes à elle, sur moi! Écoute, daroga, écoute, ce que j'ai fait... J'ai arraché mon masque pour ne pas perdre une seule de ses larmes... Et elle ne s'est pas enfuie!... Et elle n'est pas morte! Elle est restée vivante, à pleurer... sur moi... avec moi... Nous avons pleuré ensemble!... Seigneur du ciel! vous m'avez donné tout le bonheur du monde!...

Et Erik s'était effondré, râlant sur le fauteuil.

—Ah! Je ne vais pas encore mourir... tout de suite... mais laisse-moi pleurer! avait-il dit au Persan.

Au bout d'un instant, l'Homme au masque avait repris:

—Écoute, daroga... écoute bien cela... pendant que j'étais à ses pieds ...j'ai entendu qu'elle disait, «Pauvre malheureux Erik!» et elle a pris ma main!... Moi, je n'ai plus été, tu comprends, qu'un pauvre chien prêt à mourir pour elle... comme je te le dis, daroga!

«Figure-toi que j'avais dans la main un anneau, un anneau d'or que je lui avais donné... qu'elle avait perdu... et que j'ai retrouvé... une alliance, quoi!... Je le lui ai glissé dans sa petite main et je lui ai dit: Tiens!... prends ça!... prends ça pour toi... et pour lui... Ce sera mon cadeau de noces... le cadeau du pauvre malheureux Erik... Je sais que tu l'aimes, le jeune homme... ne pleure plus!... Elle m'a demandé, d'une voix bien douce, ce que je voulais dire; alors, je lui ai fait comprendre, et elle a compris tout de suite que je n'étais pour elle qu'un pauvre chien prêt à mourir... mais qu'elle, elle pourrait se marier avec le jeune homme quand elle voudrait, parce qu'elle avait pleuré avec moi... Ah! daroga... tu penses... que... lorsque je lui disais cela, c'était comme si je découpais bien tranquillement mon cœur en quatre, mais elle avait pleuré avec moi... et elle avait dit: «Pauvre malheureux Erik!...»

L'émotion d'Erik était telle qu'il dut avertir le Persan de ne point le regarder, car il étouffait et il était dans la nécessité d'ôter son masque. À ce propos le daroga m'a raconté qu'il était allé lui-même à la fenêtre et qu'il l'avait ouverte le cœur soulevé de pitié, mais en prenant grand soin de fixer la cime des arbres du jardin des Tuileries pour ne point rencontrer le visage du monstre.

—Je suis allé, avait continué Erik, délivrer le jeune homme et je lui ai dit de me suivre auprès de Christine... Ils se sont embrassés devant moi dans la chambre Louis-Philippe... Christine avait mon anneau... J'ai fait jurer à Christine que lorsque je serais mort elle viendrait une nuit, en passant par le Lac de la rue Scribe, m'enterrer en grand secret avec l'anneau d'or qu'elle aurait porté jusqu'à cette minute-là... je lui ai dit comment elle trouverait mon corps et ce qu'il fallait en faire... Alors, Christine m'a embrassé pour la première fois, à son tour, là, sur le front... (ne regarde pas, daroga!) là, sur le front... sur mon front à moi!... (ne regarde pas, daroga!) et ils sont partis tous les deux... Christine ne pleurait plus..., moi seul, je pleurais... daroga, daroga... si Christine tient son serment, elle reviendra bientôt!...

Et Erik s'était tu. Le Persan ne lui avait plus posé aucune question. Il était rassuré tout à fait sur le sort de Raoul de Chagny et de Christine Daaé, et aucun de ceux de la race humaine n'aurait pu, après l'avoir entendue cette nuit-là, mettre en doute la parole d'Erik qui pleurait.

Le monstre avait remis son masque et rassemblé ses forces pour quitter le daroga. Il lui avait annoncé que, lorsqu'il sentirait sa fin très prochaine, il lui enverrait, pour le remercier du bien que celui-ci lui avait voulu autrefois, ce qu'il avait de plus cher au monde: tous les papiers de Christine Daaé, qu'elle avait écrits dans le moment même de cette aventure à l'intention de Raoul, et qu'elle avait laissés à Erik, et quelques objets qui lui venaient d'elle, deux mouchoirs, une paire de gants et un nœud de soulier. Sur une question du Persan, Erik lui apprit que les deux jeunes gens aussitôt qu'ils s'étaient vus libres, avaient résolu d'aller chercher un prêtre au fond de quelque solitude où ils cacheraient leur bonheur et qu'ils avaient pris, dans ce dessein, «la gare du Nord du; Monde». Enfin Erik comptait sur le Persan pour, aussitôt que celui-ci aurait reçu les reliques et les papiers promis, il annonçât sa mort aux deux jeunes gens. Il devrait pour cela payer une ligne aux annonces nécrologiques du journal l'Époque.

C'était tout.

Le Persan avait reconduit Erik jusqu'à la porte de son appartement et Darius l'avait accompagné jusque sur le trottoir, en le soutenant. Un fiacre attendait. Erik y monta. Le Persan, qui était revenu à la fenêtre, l'entendit dire au cocher: «Terre-plein de l'Opéra».

Et puis, le fiacre s'était enfoncé dans la nuit. Le Persan avait, pour la dernière fois, vu le pauvre malheureux Erik.

Trois semaines plus tard, le journal l'Époque avait publié cette annonce nécrologique:

 

«ERIK EST MORT.»

 

 

ÉPILOGUE

Telle est la véridique histoire du Fantôme de l'Opéra. Comme je l'annonçais au début de cet ouvrage, on ne saurait douter maintenant qu'Erik ait réellement vécu. Trop de preuves de cette existence sont mises aujourd'hui à la portée de chacun pour qu'on ne puisse suivre, raisonnablement, les faits et les gestes d'Erik à travers tout le drame des Chagny.

Il n'est point besoin de répéter ici combien cette affaire passionna la capitale. Cette artiste enlevée, le comte de Chagny mort dans des conditions si exceptionnelles, son frère disparu et le triple sommeil des employés de l'éclairage à l'Opéra!... Quels drames! quelles passions! quels crimes s'étaient déroulés autour de l'idylle de Raoul et de la douce et charmante Christine!... Qu'était devenue la sublime et mystérieuse cantatrice dont la terre ne devait plus jamais, jamais entendre parler?... On la représenta comme la victime de la rivalité des deux frères, et nul n'imagina ce qui s'était passé; nul ne comprit que puisque Raoul et Christine avaient disparu tous deux, les deux fiancés s'étaient retirés loin du monde pour goûter un bonheur qu'ils n'eussent point voulu public après la mort inexpliquée du comte Philippe... Ils avaient pris un jour un train à la gare du Nord du Monde... Moi aussi, peut-être, un jour, je prendrai le train à cette gare-là et j'irai chercher autour de tes lacs, ô Norvège! ô silencieuse Scandinavie! les traces peut-être encore vivantes de Raoul et de Christine, et aussi de la maman Valérius, qui disparut également dans le même temps!... Peut-être un jour, entendrai-je de mes oreilles l'Écho solitaire du Nord du Monde, répéter le chant de celle qui a connu l'Ange de la Musique?...

Bien après que l'affaire, par les soins inintelligents de M. le juge d'instruction Faure, fut classée, la presse, de temps à autre, cherchait encore à pénétrer le mystère... et continuait à se demander où était la main monstrueuse qui avait préparé et exécuté tant d'inouïes catastrophes! (Crime et disparition.)

Un journal du boulevard, qui était au courant de tous les potins de coulisses, avait été le seul à écrire:

—Cette main est celle du Fantôme de l'Opéra.

Et encore il l'avait fait naturellement sur le mode ironique.

Seul le Persan qu'on n'avait pas voulu entendre et qui ne renouvela point, après la visite d'Erik, sa première tentative auprès de la Justice, possédait toute la vérité.

Et il en détenait les preuves principales qui lui étaient venues avec les pieuses reliques annoncées par le Fantôme...

Ces preuves, il m'appartenait de les compléter, avec l'aide du daroga lui-même. Je le mettais au jour le jour, au courant de mes recherches et il les guidait. Depuis des années et des années il n'était point retourné à l'Opéra, mais il avait conservé du monument le souvenir le plus précis et il n'était point de meilleur guide pour m'en faire découvrir les coins les plus cachés. C'est encore lui qui m'indiquait les sources où je pouvais puiser, les personnages à interroger; c'est lui qui me poussa à frapper à la porte de M. Poligny, dans le moment que le pauvre homme était quasi à l'agonie. Je ne le savais point si bas et je n'oublierai jamais l'effet que produisirent sur lui mes questions relatives au fantôme. Il me regarda, comme s'il voyait le diable et ne me répondit que par quelques phrases sans suite, mais qui attestaient (c'était là l'essentiel) combien F. de l'O. avait, dans son temps, jeté la perturbation dans cette vie déjà très agitée (M. Poligny était ce que l'on est convenu d'appeler un viveur).

Quand je rapportai au Persan le mince résultat de ma visite à M. Poligny, le daroga eut un vague sourire et me dit: «Jamais Poligny n'a su combien cette extraordinaire crapule d'Erik (tantôt le Persan parlait d'Erik comme d'un dieu, tantôt comme d'une vile canaille) l'a fait «marcher». Poligny était superstitieux et Erik le savait. Erik savait aussi beaucoup de choses sur les affaires publiques et privées de l'Opéra.

Quand M. Poligny entendit une voix mystérieuse lui raconter, dans la loge n° 5, l'emploi qu'il faisait de son temps et de la confiance de son associé, il ne demanda pas son reste. Frappé d'abord comme par une voix du ciel, il se crut damné, et puis, comme la voix lui demandait de l'argent, il vit bien à la fin qu'il était joué par un maître chanteur dont Debienne lui-même fut victime. Tous deux, las déjà de leur direction pour de nombreuses raisons, s'en allèrent, sans essayer de connaître plus à fond la personnalité de cet étrange F. de l'O., qui leur avait fait parvenir un si singulier cahier des charges. Ils léguèrent tout le mystère à la direction suivante en poussant un gros soupir de satisfaction, bien débarrassés d'une histoire qui les avait fort intrigués sans les faire rire ni l'un ni l'autre.

Ainsi s'exprima le Persan sur le compte de MM. Debienne et Poligny. À ce propos, je lui parlai de leurs successeurs et je m'étonnai que dans les Mémoires d'un Directeur, de M. Moncharmin, on parlât d'une façon si complète des faits et gestes de F. de l'O. dans la première partie, pour en arriver à ne plus rien en dire ou à peu près dans la seconde. À quoi le Persan, qui connaissait ces Mémoires comme s'il les avait écrits, me fit observer que je trouverais l'explication de toute l'affaire si je prenais la peine de réfléchir aux quelques lignes que, dans la seconde partie précisément de ces Mémoires, Moncharmin a bien voulu consacrer encore au Fantôme. Voici ces lignes, qui nous intéressent, du reste, tout particulièrement, puisqu'on y trouve relatée la manière fort simple dont se termina la fameuse histoire des vingt mille francs:

«À propos de F. de l'O. (c'est M. Moncharmin qui parle), dont j'ai narré ici même, au commencement de mes Mémoires, quelques-unes des singulières fantaisies, je ne veux plus dire qu'une chose, c'est qu'il racheta par un beau geste tous les tracas qu'il avait causés à mon cher collaborateur et, je dois bien l'avouer, à moi-même. Il jugea sans doute qu'il y avait des limites à toute plaisanterie, surtout quand elle coûte aussi cher et quand le commissaire de police est «saisi», car, à la minute même où nous avions donné rendez-vous dans notre cabinet à M. Mifroid pour lui conter toute l'histoire, quelques jours après la disparition de Christine Daaé, nous trouvâmes sur le bureau de Richard, dans une belle enveloppe sur laquelle on lisait à l'encre rouge: De la part de F. de l'O., les sommes assez importantes qu'il avait réussi à faire sortir momentanément, et dans une manière de jeu, de la caisse directoriale. Richard fut aussitôt d'avis qu'on devait s'en tenir là et ne point pousser l'affaire. Je consentis à être de l'avis de Richard. Et tout est bien qui finit bien. N'est-ce pas, mon cher F. de l'O.?»

Évidemment, Moncharmin, surtout après cette restitution, continuait à croire qu'il avait été un moment le jouet de l'imagination burlesque de Richard, comme, de son côté, Richard ne cessa point de croire que Moncharmin s'était, pour se venger de quelques plaisanteries, amusé à inventer toute l'affaire du F. de l'O.

N'était-ce point le moment de demander au Persan de m'apprendre par quel artifice le Fantôme faisait disparaître vingt mille francs dans la poche de Richard, malgré l'épingle de nourrice. Il me répondit qu'il n'avait point approfondi ce léger détail, mais que, si je voulais bien «travailler» sur les lieux moi-même, je devais certainement trouver la clef de l'énigme dans le bureau directorial lui-même, en me souvenant qu'Erik n'avait pas été surnommé pour rien l'amateur de trappes. Et je promis au Persan de me livrer, aussitôt que j'en aurais le temps, à d'utiles investigations de ce côté. Je dirai tout de suite au lecteur que les résultats de ces investigations furent parfaitement satisfaisants. Je ne croyais point, en vérité, découvrir tant de preuves indéniables de l'authenticité des phénomènes attribués au Fantôme.

Et il est bon que l'on sache que les papiers du Persan, ceux de Christine Daaé, les déclarations qui me furent faites par les anciens collaborateurs de MM. Richard et Moncharmin et par la petite Meg elle-même (cette excellente madame Giry étant, hélas! trépassée) et par la Sorelli, qui est retraitée maintenant à Louveciennes—il est bon, dis-je, que l'on sache que tout cela, qui constitue les pièces documentaires de l'existence du Fantôme, pièces que je vais déposer aux archives de l'Opéra, se trouve contrôlé par plusieurs découvertes importantes dont je puis tirer justement quelque fierté.

Si je n'ai pu retrouver la demeure du Lac, Erik en ayant définitivement condamné toutes les entrées secrètes (et encore je suis sûr qu'il serait facile d'y pénétrer si l'on procédait au dessèchement du Lac, comme je l'ai plusieurs fois demandé à l'administration des beaux-arts)[12], je n'en ai pas moins découvert le couloir secret des communards, dont la paroi de planches tombe par endroits en ruines; et, de même, j'ai mis à jour la trappe par laquelle le Persan et Raoul descendirent dans les dessous du théâtre. J'ai relevé, dans le cachot des communards, beaucoup d'initiales tracées sur les murs par les malheureux qui furent enfermés là et, parmi ces initiales, un R et un C.—R C? Ceci n'est-il point significatif? Raoul de Chagny! Les lettres sont encore aujourd'hui très visibles. Je ne me suis pas, bien entendu, arrêté là. Dans le premier et le troisième dessous, j'ai fait jouer deux frappes d'un système pivotant, tout à fait inconnues aux machinistes, qui n'usent que de trappes à glissade horizontale.

Enfin, je puis dire, en toute connaissance de cause, au lecteur: «Visitez un jour l'Opéra, demandez à vous y promener en paix sans cicérone stupide, entrez dans la loge n° 5 et frappez sur l'énorme colonne qui sépare cette loge de l'avant-scène; frappez avec votre canne ou avec votre poing et écoutez... jusqu'à hauteur de votre tête: la colonne sonne le creux! Et après cela, ne vous étonnez point qu'elle ait pu être habitée par la voix du Fantôme; il y a, dans cette colonne, de la place pour deux hommes. Que si vous vous étonnez que lors des phénomènes de la loge n°5 nul ne se soit retourné vers cette colonne, n'oubliez pas qu'elle offre l'aspect du marbre massif et que la voix qui était enfermée semblait plutôt venir du côté opposé (car la voix du fantôme ventriloque venait d'où il voulait). La colonne est travaillée, sculptée, fouillée et trifouillée par le ciseau de l'artiste. Je ne désespère pas de découvrir un jour le morceau de sculpture qui devait s'abaisser et se relever à volonté, pour laisser un libre et mystérieux passage à la correspondance du Fantôme avec Mme Giry et à ses générosités. Certes, tout cela, que j'ai vu, senti, palpé, n'est rien à côté de ce qu'en réalité un être énorme et fabuleux comme Erik a dû créer dans le mystère d'un monument comme celui de l'Opéra, mais je donnerais toutes ces découvertes pour celle qu'il m'a été donné de faire, devant l'administrateur lui-même, dans le bureau du directeur, à quelques centimètres du fauteuil: une trappe, de la largeur de la lame du parquet, de la longueur d'un avant-bras, pas plus... une trappe qui se rabat comme le couvercle d'un coffret, une trappe par où je vois sortir une main qui travaille avec dextérité dans le pan d'un habit à queue-de-morue qui traîne...

C'est par là qu'étaient partis les quarante mille francs!... C'était aussi par là que, grâce à quelque truchement, ils étaient revenus...

Quand j'en parlai avec une émotion bien compréhensible au Persan, je lui dis:

—Erik s'amusait donc simplement—puisque les quarante mille francs sont revenus—à faire le facétieux avec son cahier des charges?...

Il me répondit:

—Ne le croyez point!... Erik avait besoin d'argent.. Se croyant hors de l'humanité, il n'était point gêné par le scrupule et il se servait des dons extraordinaires d'adresse et d'imagination qu'il avait reçus de la nature en compensation de l'atroce laideur dont elle l'avait doté, pour exploiter les humains, et cela quelquefois de la façon la plus artistique du monde, car le tour valait souvent son pesant d'or. S'il a rendu les quarante mille francs, de son propre mouvement, à MM. Richard et Moncharmin, c'est qu'au moment de la restitution il n'en avait plus besoin! Il avait renoncé à son mariage avec Christine Daaé. Il avait renoncé à toutes les choses du dessus de la terre.

D'après le Persan, Erik était originaire d'une petite ville aux environs de Rouen. C'était le fils d'un entrepreneur de maçonnerie. Il avait fui de bonne heure le domicile paternel, où sa laideur était un objet d'horreur et d'épouvante pour ses parents. Quelque temps, il s'était exhibé dans les foires, où son imprésario le montrait comme «mort vivant». Il avait dû traverser l'Europe de foire en foire et compléter son étrange éducation d'artiste et de magicien à la source même de l'art et de la magie, chez les Bohémiens. Toute une période de l'existence d'Erik était assez obscure. On le retrouve à la foire de Nijni-Novgorod, où alors il se produisait dans toute son affreuse gloire. Déjà il chantait comme personne au monde n'a jamais chanté; il faisait le ventriloque et se livrait à des jongleries extraordinaires dont les caravanes, à leur retour en Asie, parlaient encore, tout le long du chemin. C'est ainsi que sa réputation passa les murs du palais de Mazenderan, où la petite sultane, favorite du sha-en-shah, s'ennuyait. Un marchand de fourrures, qui se rendait à Samarkand et qui revenait de Nijni-Novgorod, raconta les miracles qu'il avait vus sous la tente d'Erik. On fit venir le marchand au Palais, et le daroga de Mazenderan dut l'interroger. Puis, le daroga fut chargé de se mettre à la recherche d'Erik. Il le ramena en Perse, où pendant quelques mois il fit, comme on dit en Europe, la pluie et le beau temps. Il commit ainsi pas mal d'horreurs, car il semblait ne connaître ni le bien ni le mal, et il coopéra à quelques beaux assassinats politiques aussi tranquillement qu'il combattit, avec des inventions diaboliques, l'émir d'Afghanistan, en guerre avec l'Empire. Le sha-en-shah le prit en amitié. C'est à ce moment que se placent les Heures roses de Mazenderan, dont le récit du daroga nous a donné un aperçu. Comme Erik avait, en architecture, des idées tout à fait personnelles et qu'il concevait un palais comme un prestidigitateur peut imaginer un coffret à combinaisons, le sha-en-shah lui commanda une construction de ce genre, qu'il mena à bien et qui était, paraît-il, si ingénieuse que Sa Majesté pouvait se promener partout sans qu'on l'aperçût et disparaître sans qu'il fût possible de découvrir par quel artifice. Quand le sha-en-shah se vit le maître d'un pareil joyau, il ordonna, ainsi que l'avait fait certain Tsar à l'égard du génial architecte d'une église de la place Rouge, à Moscou, qu'on crevât à Erik ses yeux d'or. Mais il réfléchit que, même aveugle, Erik pourrait construire encore, pour un autre souverain, une aussi inouïe demeure, et puis, enfin, que, Erik vivant, quelqu'un avait le secret du merveilleux palais. La mort d'Erik fut décidée, ainsi que celle de tous les ouvriers qui avaient travaillé sous ses ordres. Le daroga de Mazenderan fut chargé de l'exécution de cet ordre abominable. Erik lui avait rendu quelques services et l'avait bien fait rire. Il le sauva en lui procurant les moyens de s'enfuir. Mais il faillit payer de sa tête cette faiblesse généreuse. Heureusement pour le daroga, on trouva, sur la rive de la mer Caspienne, un cadavre à moitié mangé par les oiseaux de mer et qui passa pour celui d'Erik, à cause que des amis du daroga avaient revêtu cette dépouille d'effets ayant appartenu à Erik lui-même. Le daroga en fut quitte pour la perte de sa faveur, de ses biens, et pour l'exil. Le Trésor persan continua cependant, car le daroga était issu de race royale, de lui faire une petite rente de quelques centaines de francs par mois, et c'est alors qu'il vint se réfugier à Paris.

Quant à Erik, il avait passé en Asie-Mineure, puis était allé à Constantinople où il était entré au service du sultan. J'aurai fait comprendre les services qu'il put rendre à un souverain que hantaient toutes les terreurs, quand j'aurai dit que ce fut Erik qui construisit toutes les fameuses, trappes et chambres secrètes et coffre-forts mystérieux que l'on trouva à Yildiz-Kiosk, après la dernière révolution turque. C'est encore lui[13] qui eut cette imagination de fabriquer des automates habillés comme le prince et ressemblant à s'y méprendre au prince lui-même, automates qui faisaient croire que le chef des croyants se tenait dans un endroit, éveillé, quand il reposait dans un autre.

Naturellement, il dut quitter le service du sultan pour les mêmes raisons qu'il avait dû s'enfuir de Perse. Il savait trop de choses. Alors, très fatigué de son aventureuse et formidable et monstrueuse vie, il souhaita de devenir quelqu'un comme tout le monde. Et il se fit entrepreneur, comme un entrepreneur ordinaire qui construit des maisons à tout le monde, avec des briques ordinaires! Il soumissionna certains travaux de fondation à l'Opéra. Quand il se vit dans les dessous d'un aussi vaste théâtre, son naturel artiste, fantaisiste et magique, reprit le dessus. Et puis, n'était-il pas toujours aussi laid? Il rêva de se créer une demeure inconnue du reste de la terre et qui le cacherait à jamais au regard des hommes.

On sait et l'on devine la suite. Elle est tout au long, de cette incroyable et pourtant véridique aventure. Pauvre malheureux Erik! Faut-il le plaindre? Faut-il le maudire? Il ne demandait qu'à être quelqu'un, comme tout le monde! Mais il était trop laid! Et il dut cacher son génie ou faire des tours avec, quand, avec un visage ordinaire, il eût été l'un des plus nobles de la race humaine! Il avait un cœur à contenir l'empire du monde, et il dut finalement, se contenter d'une cave. Décidément il faut plaindre le Fantôme de l'Opéra!

J'ai prié, malgré ses crimes, sur sa dépouille et que Dieu l'ait décidément en pitié! Pourquoi Dieu a-t-il fait un homme aussi laid que celui-là?

Je suis sûr, bien sûr, d'avoir prié sur son cadavre, l'autre jour quand on l'a sorti de la terre, à l'endroit même où l'on enterrait les voix vivantes; c'était son squelette. Ce n'est point à la laideur de la tête que je l'ai reconnu, car lorsqu'ils sont morts depuis si longtemps, tous les hommes sont laids, mais à l'anneau d'or qu'il portait et que Christine Daaé était certainement venue lui glisser au doigt, avant de l'ensevelir, comme elle le lui avait promis.

Le squelette se trouvait tout près de la petite fontaine, à cet endroit où pour la première fois, quand il l'entraîna dans les dessous du théâtre, l'Ange de la Musique avait tenu dans ses bras tremblants Christine Daaé évanouie.

Et, maintenant, que va-t-on faire de ce squelette? On ne va pas le jeter à la fosse commune?... Moi, je dis: la place du squelette du Fantôme de l'Opéra est aux archives de l'Académie nationale de musique; ce n'est pas un squelette ordinaire.

 

[12]J'en parlais encore quarante-huit heures avant l'apparition de cet ouvrage, à M. Dujardin-Beaumetz, notre si sympathique sous-secrétaire d'État aux beaux-arts, qui m'a laissé quelque espoir, et je lui disais qu'il était du devoir de l'État d'en finir avec la légende du Fantôme pour rétablir sur des bases indiscutables l'histoire si curieuse d'Erik. Pour cela, il est nécessaire, et ce serait le couronnement de mes travaux personnels, de retrouver la Demeure du Lac, dans laquelle se trouvent peut-être encore des trésors pour l'art musical. On ne doute plus qu'Erik fût un artiste incomparable. Qui nous dit que nous ne trouverons point dans la Demeure du Lac, la fameuse partition de son Don Juan triomphant?

[13]Interview de Mohamed-Ali bey, au lendemain de l'entrée des troupes de Salonique, à Constantinople, par l'envoyé spécial du Matin.