menu_book Chapter 30

chapter thirty of fantmas by marcella lane and pierre souvestre this librivox recording is in the public domain recording by alan winteroud fantmas by marcella lane and pierre souvestre translated by cranston metcalfe chapter thirty an assignation The final curtain had fallen upon the first performance of the new drama at the Grand Triteau. The night had been one long triumph for Valgrande, and although it was very late, the baron de Vibray, who plumed herself on being the great tragedian's dearest friend, had made her way behind the scenes to lavish praise and congratulations on him,

and have a little triumph of her own in presenting her friends to the hero of the hour. In vain had Charleau, the old dresser, tried to prevent her invasion of his master's dressing-room. He was not proof against her perseverance, and ere long she had swept into the room with the proud smile of a general entering a conquered town. The Compe de Baral, a tall young man with a single eyeglass, followed close in her wake. Will you please announce us, he said to the dresser.

Charleau hesitated a moment in surprise, then broke into voluble explanations. Monsieur Valgrande is not here yet. What, didn't you know? Why, at the end of the performance, the Minister of Public Instruction sent for him to congratulate him. That's a tremendous honor, and it's the second time it has been paid to Monsieur Valgrande. Meanwhile, the other two ladies in the party were roaming about the dressing-room. Madame

Simone Holborn, wife of a colonel of the Marines, who had just covered himself with distinction in the Congo, and the Comtesse Marceline de Baral. How thrilling an actor's dressing room is, exclaimed Madame Holborn, inspecting everything in the room through her glass. Just look at these darling little brushes. I suppose he uses those in making up, and oh my dear, there are actually three kinds of rouge. The Comtesse de Baral was fascinated

by the photographs adorning the walls. To the admirable Valgrande from a comrade, she read in awestruck tones. Come and look, dear, it is signed by Sarah Bernhardt. And listen to this one. At Buenos Aires, at Melbourne and New York, wherever I am, I hear the praises of my friend Valgrande. Something like a globetrotter, said Madame Holborn. I expect he belongs to the Comédie Français. Colonel Holborn interrupted, calling to his wife. Simone, come and listen to what our

friend de Baral is telling me. It is really very curious. The young woman approached, and the Comte began again for her benefit. You have come back too recently from the Congo to be up to date with all our Paris happenings, and so you will not have noticed this little touch. But in the part that he created tonight, Valgrande made himself up exactly like Gurn, the man who murdered Lord Beltham. Gurn? said Madame Holborn, to whom the name did not convey much. Oh, yes, I think I read about that.

The murderer escaped, didn't he? Well, they took a long time to find him, the Comte de Baral replied. As usual, the police were giving up all hope of finding him, when one day, or rather one night, they did find him and arrested him. And where do you suppose that was? Why, with Lady Beltham, yes, really, in her own house at Nuit. Impossible, cried Simone Holborn. Poor woman! What an awful shock for her! Lady Beltham is a brave, dignified, and truly charitable woman,

said the Comtesse de Baral. She simply worshipped her husband, and yet she has pleaded warmly for mercy for the murderer, though she did not succeed in getting it. What a dreadful thing, said Simone Holborn perfunctorily. Her attention was wandering to all the other attractions in this attractive room. A pile of letters was lying on a writing table, and the reckless young woman began to look at the envelopes. Just look at this pile of letters, she cried. How funny! Every one

of them in a woman's hand. I suppose Valgrande gets all sorts of offers. Colonel Holborn went on talking to the Comte de Barral in a corner of the room. I am enormously interested in what you tell me. What happened then? Well, this wretch Gurn was recognized by the police as he was leaving Lady Baltham's, and was arrested and put in prison. The trial came on at the Court of Assize about six weeks ago. All Paris went to it, of course, including myself. This man Gurn is a brute,

but a strange brute, rather difficult to define. He swore that he had killed Lord Baltham after a quarrel, practically for the sake of robbing him, but I have a strong impression that he was lying. But why else should he have committed the murder? The Comte de Baral shrugged his shoulders. Nobody knows, he said. Politics, perhaps. Nihilism, or, perhaps again, love. There was one fact or coincidence worth noting. When Lady Beltham came home from the Transvaal after the war, during

which, by the way, she did splendid work among the sick and wounded, she sailed by the same boat that was taking Gern to England. Gern was also a bit of a popular hero just then. He had volunteered at the beginning of the war, and came back with a sergeant's stripes and a medal for distinguished conduct. Can Gern and Lady Beltham have met and got to know each other? It is certain that the lady's behavior during the trial lent itself to comment, if not exactly to scandal. She had odd

collapses in the presence of the murderer, collapses which were accounted for in very various ways. Some people said that she was half out of her mind with grief at the loss of her husband. Others said that if she was mad, it was over someone, over this vulgar criminal, martyr or accomplice, perhaps. They even went so far as to allege that Lady Baltham had an intrigue with Gern. Come, come, the colonel protested. A great lady like Lady Beltham,

so religious and so austere? Absurd. People say all sorts of things, said the Comte de Baral vaguely. He turned to another subject. Anyhow, the case caused a tremendous sensation. Gern's condemnation to death was very popular, and the case was so typically Parisian that our friend Valgrande, knowing that he was going to create the part of the murderer in this tragedy tonight, followed every phase of the Gurn trial closely, studied the man in detail, and literally

identified himself with him in this character. It was a shrewd idea. You noticed the sensation when he came on the stage? Yes, I did, said the colonel. I wondered what the exclamations from all over the house meant. Try to find a portrait of Gurn in some one of the illustrated papers, said the Comte, and compare it with, ah, I think this is Valgrande coming. The Baron de Vibray had tired of her conversation with the old dresser, Charleau,

and had left him to take up her stand outside the dressing room, where she greeted with nods and smiles the other actors and actresses as they hurried by on their way home, and listened to the sounds at the end of the passage. Presently a voice became distinguishable, the voice of Valgrande singing a refrain from a musical comedy. The Baron de Vibray hurried to meet him, with both hands outstretched, and led him into his dressing-room.

Let me present Monsieur Valgrande, she exclaimed, and then presented the two young women to the bowing actor. Comtesse Marceline de Barral, Madame Holborn. Pardon me, ladies, for keeping you waiting, the actor said. I was deep in conversation with the minister. He was so charming, so kind. He turned to the Baron de Vibray. He did me the honor to offer me a cigarette. A relic! Charlot! Charlot! You must put this cigarette in the little box where all my treasures

are. It is very full already, Monsieur Valgrande, said Charlot deprecatingly. We must not keep you long, the Baron de Vibray murmured. You must be very tired. Valgrande passed a weary hand across his brow, positively exhausted. Then he raised his head and looked at the company. What did you think of me? A chorus of eulogy sprang from every lip. Splendid, wonderful, the very perfection of art. No, but really, protested Valgrande, swelling with satisfied vanity, tell me candidly, was it

really good? You really were wonderful, could not have been better, the baron de Vibray exclaimed enthusiastically, and the crowd of worshippers endorsed every word until the actor was convinced that their praise was quite sincere. How I have worked, he exclaimed. Do you know, when rehearsals began, ask Charlot if this isn't true, the piece simply didn't exist. Simply didn't exist, Charlot corroborated him like an echo.

Didn't exist, Valgrande repeated. Not even my part. It was insignificant. Flat. So I took the author aside, and I said,

Franz, my boy, I'll tell you what you must do. You know the lawyer's speech? Absurd. What am I to do while he is delivering it? I'll make the speech for my own defense, and I'll get something out of it.

And the prison scene. Just fancy, he had shoved a parson into that. I said to France, Cut the parson out, my boy. What the dickens am I to do while he is preaching? Simply nothing at all. It's absurd. Give his speech to me. I'll preach to myself. And there you are. I don't want to boast. But really, I did it all. And it was a success, eh?

Again the chorus broke out, to be stopped by Valgrande, who was contemplating his reflection in a mirror. And my makeup, Colonel? Do you know the story of my makeup? I hear they were talking about it all over the house. Am I like Gern? What do you think? You saw him quite close at the trial, what do you think? The resemblance is perfectly amazing, said the Comte de Baral with perfect truth. The actor stroked his face mechanically. A new idea struck him. My beard is a real one,

he exclaimed. I let it grow on purpose. I hardly had to make myself up at all. I am the same build, the same type, same profile. It was ridiculously easy. Give me a lock of hair from your beard for a locket, said the baron de Vibray impudently. Valgrin looked at her and heaved a profound sigh. Not yet, not yet, dear lady. I am infinitely sorry, but not yet. A little later on, perhaps. Wait for the hundredth performance.

I must have one, too, said Simone Hobor, and Valgrin with great dignity replied. I will put your name down for one, madame. But the Comte de Baral had looked furtively at his watch, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. My good people, it is most horribly late, and our great artistes must be overcome with sleep. Forthwith, they all prepared to depart, in spite of the actor's courteous protest that he could not hear of letting them go so soon.

They lingered at the door for a few minutes in eager, animated conversation, shaking hands and exchanging farewells and thanks and congratulations. Then the sounds of their footsteps died away along the corridors, and the baron de Vibray and her friends left the theater. Valgrane turned back into his dressing room and locked the door,

then dropped into the low and comfortable chair that was set before his dressing table. he remained there resting for a few minutes and then sat up and threw a whimsical glance at his dresser who was putting out his ordinary clothes hang it all charlot what's exhaustion the mere sight of such jewels as those enchanting women would wake one from the dead charlot shrugged his shoulders will you never be serious m valgrand heavens i hope not exclaimed the actor i hope not for if there is one thing of which one never tires here below it is woman the peerless rainbow that illuminates this veil of tears You are very poetical to-night, the dresser remarked. I am a lover, in love with love.

Oh, love, love, and in my time, you know. He made a sweeping, comprehensive gesture, and came back abruptly to mundane affairs. Come, help me to dress. Charlo offered him a bundle of letters, which Valgrin took with careless hand. He looked at the envelopes one after another, hugely amused.

Violet ink and monograms and coronets and perfume. Say, Charlo, is this a proposal? What do you bet? You never have anything else, the dresser grumbled, except bills. Do you bet? If you insist, I bet it is a bill.

Then you will win, said Charlo. Done, cried Valgrin. Listen. And he began to declaim the letter aloud. Oh, wondrous genius! A flower but now unclosing! Got it, Charlo? Another of them! He tore open another envelope. Aha! Photographing closed, and will I send it back if the original

is not to my fancy? He flung himself back in his chair to laugh. Where is my collar? He picked up a third envelope. What will you bet that this violet envelope does not contain another tribute to my fatal beauty. I bet it is another bill, said the dresser, but you are sure to win. I have, Valgrin replied, and again declaimed the written words. If you promise to be discreet and true, you shall never regret it. Does one ever regret it, even if one does not

keep one's promises? At lovers' perjuries, Charlo quoted. Drunken promises, Valgrin retorted. By the way, I am dying for a drink. Give me a whiskey and soda. He got up and moved to the table on which Charlo had set the decanters and glasses, and was about to take the glass the dresser offered him, when a tap on the door brought the conversation to a sudden stop. The actor frowned. He did not want to be bothered by more visitors, but curiosity got the better of his annoyance,

and he told Charlo to see who it was. Charlo went to the door, and peered through a narrow opening at the thoughtless intruder. Fancy making all this bother over a letter, he growled. Urgent? Of course, they always are urgent. And he shut the door on the messenger, and gave the letter to Valgrande. A woman brought it, he said. Valgrande looked at it. Hmm. Morning. Will you bet, Charlo? Deep morning, said Charlo. Then I bet it is a declaration.

I expect you will win again, for very likely it is a begging letter. Black edges stir compassion. Valgron was reading the letter, carelessly to begin with, then with deep attention. He reached the signature at the end, and then read it through again, aloud this time, punctuating his reading with flippant comments. In creating the part of the criminal in the tragedy tonight, you made yourself up into a most marvelous likeness of Gurn, the man who murdered Lord Baltham.

Come tonight at two o'clock in your costume to 22 rue Messier. Take care not to be seen, but come. Someone who loves you is waiting for you there. And it is signed, said the dresser. That, my boy, I'm not going to tell you, said Valgrande, and he put the letter carefully into his pocketbook. Why, man, what are you up to? he added as the dresser came up to him to take his clothes.

Up to, the servant exclaimed, I am only helping you to get your things off. Idiot, laughed Valgrande. Didn't you understand? Give me my black tie and villain's coat again. What on earth is the matter with you? Charlo asked with some uneasiness. Surely you are not thinking of going. Not going? Why, in the whole of my career as Amorist, I have never had such an opportunity before.

It may be a hoax. Take my word for it, I know better. Things like this aren't hoaxes. Besides, I know the lady. She has often been pointed out to me, and at the trial, by Jo Charlot, she is the most

enchanting woman in the world, strangely lovely, infinitely distinguished, absolutely fascinating. You are raving like a schoolboy. So much the better for me. Why, I was half dead with fatigue, and now I am myself again. Be quick, booby.

My hat. Time is getting on. Where is it? Where is what? The bewildered Charlo asked.

Why this place, Lagran answered irritably. This Rue Messier. Look it up in the directory. Lagran stamped impatiently up and down the room, while Charlo hurriedly turned the pages of the directory, muttering the syllables at the top of each as he ran through them in alphabetical

order. J-K-L-M-M-A-M-E-Y-M-S-E-R-Valgrande? What is the matter? Why, it is the street where the prison is. The Sante, where Gurn is in the condemned cell? Valgrande cocked his hat rakishly on one side. And I have an assignation at the prison? Not exactly, but not far off, right opposite. Yes, number 22 must be right opposite. Right opposite the prison? Valgrand exclaimed gaily. The choice of the spot and the desire to see me in my costume as Gurn are evidence of a positive

refinement in sensation. See, the lady and I, the counterpart of Gurn, and right opposite the real gurn in his cell. Quick, man, my cloak, my cane. To think, sir, Charlo protested. It is absolutely absurd. A man like you—a man like me, Valgron roared—would keep an appointment like this if he had to walk on his head to get there. Good night! And caroling gaily, Valgron strode down the corridor. Charlo was accustomed to these wild vagaries on his master's part, for Valgron was the

most daring and inveterate rake it is possible to imagine. But while he was tidying up the litter in the room, after Valgrande had left him, the dresser shook his head. What a pity it is, and he's such a great artiste. These women will make an absolute fool of him. Why, he hasn't even taken his gloves or his scarf. There was a tap at the door, and the doorkeeper looked in. Can I turn out the lights, he inquired. Has Monsieur Valgrande gone?

Yes, said the dresser absently. He has gone. A great night, said the doorkeeper. Have you seen the last edition of the Capital, the eleven o'clock edition? There's a notice of us already. The papers don't lose any time nowadays. They say it is a great success. Let's look at it, said the dresser, and, glancing through the notice, added, Yes, that's quite true. Monsieur Valgrande has achieved

his finest triumph in his last creation. He looked casually through the newspaper, and suddenly broke into a sharp exclamation. Good heavens! It can't be possible! What's the matter? the doorkeeper inquired. Charleau pointed a shaking finger to another column. Read that, Jean, read that. Surely I am mistaken. The doorkeeper peered over Charleau's shoulder at the indicated passage. I don't see anything in that. It's that Gern affair again.

Yes, he is to be executed at daybreak on the 18th. But that is this morning, presently, Charlo exclaimed. Maybe, said the doorkeeper indifferently. Yes, last night was the 17th, so it is the 18th now. Are you ill, Charlo? Charlo pulled himself together. No, it's nothing. I'm only tired. You can put out the lights. I shall be out of the theater in five minutes. I only want to do one or two little things here. All right, said Jean, turning away.

Shut the door behind you when you leave, if I have gone to bed. Charlo sat on the arm of a chair and wiped his brow. I don't like this business, he muttered. Why the deuce did he want to go? What does this woman want with him? I may be only an old fool, but I know what I know, and there have been no end of queer stories about this job already. He sat there meditating till an idea took shape in his mind. Can I dare go round there and just

prowl about? Of course he will be furious, but suppose that letter was a decoy and he is walking into a trap. One can never tell. An assignation in that particular street with that prison opposite and gurned to be guillotined within the next hour or so? The man made up his mind, hurriedly put on his coat and hat, and switched off the electric lights in the exquisitely appointed dressing-room. I'll go, he said aloud. If I see anything suspicious, or if at the end of half an hour I

don't see Monsieur Valgrin leaving the house, well—Charlot turned the key in the lock. Yes, I will go. I shall be much easier in my mind. End of chapter 30. Recording by Alan Winterout. Boomcoach.blogspot.com.