Le mystère de la chambre jaune. English, Page 23

  CHAPTER XXII. The Incredible Body

  I bent in great anxiety over the body of the reporter and had the joyto find that he was deeply sleeping, the same unhealthy sleep that I hadseen fall upon Frederic Larsan. He had succumbed to the influence of thesame drug that had been mixed with our food. How was it then, that I,also, had not been overcome by it? I reflected that the drug must havebeen put into our wine; because that would explain my condition. I neverdrink when eating. Naturally inclined to obesity, I am restricted toa dry diet. I shook Rouletabille, but could not succeed in waking him.This, no doubt, was the work of Mademoiselle Stangerson.

  She had certainly thought it necessary to guard herself against thisyoung man as well as her father. I recalled that the steward, in servingus, had recommended an excellent Chablis which, no doubt, had come fromthe professor's table.

  More-than a quarter of an hour passed. I resolved, under the pressingcircumstances, to resort to extreme measures. I threw a pitcher of coldwater over Rouletabille's head. He opened his eyes. I beat his face, andraised him up. I felt him stiffen in my arms and heard him murmur: "Goon, go on; but don't make any noise." I pinched him and shook him untilhe was able to stand up. We were saved!

  "They sent me to sleep," he said. "Ah! I passed an awful quarter of anhour before giving way. But it is over now. Don't leave me."

  He had no sooner uttered those words than we were thrilled by afrightful cry that rang through the chateau,--a veritable death cry.

  "Malheur!" roared Rouletabille; "we shall be too late!"

  He tried to rush to the door, but he was too dazed, and fell againstthe wall. I was already in the gallery, revolver in hand, rushing likea madman towards Mademoiselle Stangerson's room. The moment I arrived atthe intersection of the "off-turning" gallery and the "right" gallery, Isaw a figure leaving her apartment, which, in a few strides had reachedthe landing-place.

  I was not master of myself. I fired. The report from the revolver made adeafening noise; but the man continued his flight down the stairs. Iran behind him, shouting: "Stop!--stop! or I will kill you!" As I rushedafter him down the stairs, I came face to face with Arthur Rance comingfrom the left wing of the chateau, yelling: "What is it? What is it?" Wearrived almost at the same time at the foot of the staircase. The windowof the vestibule was open. We distinctly saw the form of a man runningaway. Instinctively we fired our revolvers in his direction. He was notmore than ten paces in front of us; he staggered and we thought he wasgoing to fall. We had sprung out of the window, but the man dashed offwith renewed vigour. I was in my socks, and the American was barefooted.There being no hope of overtaking him, we fired our last cartridges athim. But he still kept on running, going along the right side of thecourt towards the end of the right wing of the chateau, which hadno other outlet than the door of the little chamber occupied by theforest-keeper. The man, though he was evidently wounded by our bullets,was now twenty yards ahead of us. Suddenly, behind us, and aboveour heads, a window in the gallery opened and we heard the voice ofRouletabille crying out desperately:

  "Fire, Bernier!--Fire!"

  At that moment the clear moonlight night was further lit by a broadflash. By its light we saw Daddy Bernier with his gun on the thresholdof the donjon door.

  He had taken good aim. The shadow fell. But as it had reached the end ofthe right wing of the chateau, it fell on the other side of the angleof the building; that is to say, we saw it about to fall, but not theactual sinking to the ground. Bernier, Arthur Rance and myself reachedthe other side twenty seconds later. The shadow was lying dead at ourfeet.

  Aroused from his lethargy by the cries and reports, Larsan opened thewindow of his chamber and called out to us. Rouletabille, quite awakenow, joined us at the same moment, and I cried out to him:

  "He is dead!--is dead!"

  "So much the better," he said. "Take him into the vestibule of thechateau." Then as if on second thought, he said: "No!--no! Let us puthim in his own room."

  Rouletabille knocked at the door. Nobody answered. Naturally, this didnot surprise me.

  "He is evidently not there, otherwise he would have come out," said thereporter. "Let us carry him to the vestibule then."

  Since reaching the dead shadow, a thick cloud had covered the moon anddarkened the night, so that we were unable to make out the features.Daddy Jacques, who had now joined us, helped us to carry the body intothe vestibule, where we laid it down on the lower step of the stairs.On the way, I had felt my hands wet from the warm blood flowing from thewounds.

  Daddy Jacques flew to the kitchen and returned with a lantern. He heldit close to the face of the dead shadow, and we recognised the keeper,the man called by the landlord of the Donjon Inn the Green Man, whom, anhour earlier, I had seen come out of Arthur Rance's chamber carrying aparcel. But what I had seen I could only tell Rouletabille later, whenwe were alone.

  Rouletabille and Frederic Larsan experienced a cruel disappointmentat the result of the night's adventure. They could only look inconsternation and stupefaction at the body of the Green Man.

  Daddy Jacques showed a stupidly sorrowful face and with sillylamentations kept repeating that we were mistaken--the keeper could notbe the assailant. We were obliged to compel him to be quiet. He couldnot have shown greater grief had the body been that of his own son.I noticed, while all the rest of us were more or less undressed andbarefooted, that he was fully clothed.

  Rouletabille had not left the body. Kneeling on the flagstones by thelight of Daddy Jacques's lantern he removed the clothes from the bodyand laid bare its breast. Then snatching the lantern from Daddy Jacques,he held it over the corpse and saw a gaping wound. Rising suddenly heexclaimed in a voice filled with savage irony:

  "The man you believe to have been shot was killed by the stab of a knifein his heart!"

  I thought Rouletabille had gone mad; but, bending over the body, Iquickly satisfied myself that Rouletabille was right. Not a sign ofa bullet anywhere--the wound, evidently made by a sharp blade, hadpenetrated the heart.